


The Kingfisher

by ussgallifrey



Series: The Captured Hearts [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Bucky Lives, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Character Death, Corruption, Depression, F/M, Female Character of Color, Graphic Description of Corpses, Language, Nightmares, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Propaganda, Secret Relationship, Steve Dies, Survivor Guilt, Violence, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey/pseuds/ussgallifrey
Summary: An unsuspecting file, hidden within the archives of the New York Bell Co., leads to memories of Bucky’s past to come unraveling at the seams. Someone's been keeping him in the dark all this time and he'll do whatever it takes to uncover the truth.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character of Color, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Captured Hearts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908838
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Prélude

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).
> 
> **Playlist:** _[Here](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fopen.spotify.com%2Fplaylist%2F1ErFxv1plIM6mhYqhrXbkL%3Fsi%3Di4_O4NEORVeYp8AfhoO-CA&t=NWJkZmQ2OTI3MzIxZTc3OTlkM2UxZjdlNzA2MDE3MmYxOWJjM2I5NyxjMDA5NGUyNTJiZDlkODFhNGM3MGEzMGM1YWJhM2U0YTQ1ODIzYzEy)_

Paris is burning.

It takes a moment to realize that the brilliant display happening in the sky of sudden flashes of white sparkling lights is not in fact fireworks, but exploding artillery shells. The silence is entirely deafening as hot sparks fly across the vast darkness of the midnight hour. Where thundering booms should be, only the breeze of the street seems to caress his soul.

Craning his neck back to watch the sight unfolding above him, high above the rooftops, he’s brought to a distant memory. Flashes of a boy on a fire escape, watching the fireworks glittering above the Hudson. An easier time, a softer time.

The air is heavy with sulfur, enough to turn an already sour stomach. But somehow, he finds himself entranced by the shelling. Something so desperately hypnotic in the sudden flash of light, followed by the slow descent of sparks. In this moment, he is simply an observer with little to worry about in terms of personal safety.

Where he stands, in the middle of a tightly lined street, is being hit with a repeated streak of light following each eruption. Rows of white terrace become painfully bright as long-casted shadows stretch past him. A crawl of black, gripping the cobblestone and refusing to let go even as the light fades.

Somehow, the scene of buildings breaking apart, beautiful statues and monuments shattering in a violent stroke of light - as if hit by a zap of lightning from Zeus’s infamous arsenal, doesn’t grip him with fear, but _wonder_.

Centuries of work crumbling at his feet, showering him with rubble in a daze of slow motion. He can’t find it in himself to move - too awestruck by the strange beauty of the destructive forces at play.

He wonders how long his hearing’s been shot for - waiting for the slow fade into the true terror of warfare. But he doesn’t feel that initial panic - that’s nice, at least. Not many people can appreciate that, especially not back home. They haven’t had the misfortune of experiencing the reality of war.

But _wait_. That’s not right, he hasn’t been discharged yet. He’s still… he’s still…

And before the intrusive thoughts can break through the protective wall of his mind, something heavenly hits his ears.

It starts off low before growing with an enticing fervor. A lover’s touch, sweet as honey and promises of a gentle summer trickle into his mind all at once. There’s a familiarity there, but he can’t quite place it.

Almost like a train’s mighty horn, then drumming, _oh_, then sweet sweet guitar. So skillfully played, strumming a strange pattern with an amazing speed he can barely comprehend. It sings - memories of a stolen bottle of wine, a hidden kiss behind the broken wall of a monastery, someone warm as the morning sun with lips softer than rose petals.

An open doorway beckons him inside and he can almost forget the ongoing shelling above the city.

The countless faces are nothing but a blur as he squeezes through the crowded nightclub, down a set of stairs into the smoky cavern. Laughter all around is muddled by the exuberant strength of the guitarist - another faceless being on a small platform at the back of the club. Tables of patrons and those standing to watch make for little moving room, but something’s drawing him in.

The heavy perfume and cologne, the strong cover of cigarette smoke, and the overflowing abundance of good drinks. Bodies, almost frozen in an awestruck state at the faceless man, are easily brushed past as he makes his way through the room. And he’s almost to the tiny stage where the seated guitarist plays, but one laugh catches his attention above all others.

Like a lighted beacon on the stormy sea, it reels him in.

He freezes - body going tense as he slowly turns his head towards the lovely sound.

Where the rest of the world ends, she begins. The people, so inconsequential in comparison, fade into the background of the darkened room. A ray of yellow light, a heaven-sent halo around her beautiful face, draws him in. Fully entranced as she laughs, bats a playful hand, smiles at a silent joke.

And then her gaze lifts, meeting his. Oh, beautiful. So wonderful. Dark eyes. Deep and enchanting, the power of the universe and the mystery of the deep sea all wrapped into one alluring individual. And she only has eyes for him.

When he steps in front of her, sat on the edge of a tabletop in an emerald green dress he’s never seen before, she twists her lips up into a smirk. And he’s home. Well and properly home here in her welcoming presence. Her legs bounce along in time to the music, an ankle gently brushes against his thigh. Hair finally on view from the usual headscarf, perfect curls that look tempting to touch - but he resists the urge.

Tugging at the lapels of his suit, her eyes downcast as she playfully teases, “I thought you wouldn’t come. Steve was getting _awfully_ worried.”

_Steve_? Where was… he should be… where was -

A hand, warm and grounding on his cheek, pulls him from the thoughts that rapidly fire in his head.

_Fire_? Wasn’t there -

“He’s a mother hen, I know. But you! Think you can keep up with me?”

The hand slips from his face and tugs at his right hand, pulling him towards the dancefloor. The crowd already parted for them and the guitarist has only picked up his blistering momentum.

A dance with a beautiful woman? Oh, that’s nothing. He could do this all day -

“Why did you leave?”

His face drops as the question hits him like a slap, the confusion creeps in.

“Darlin’?”

It’s the first thing he’s said and he can barely even get it out - like someone dumped a bag of sand into his mouth when he wasn’t looking.

“You left me." 

The music stops on a painful strum - the high-pitched whine of the cord rings in his ears like an incoming shell -

She’s suddenly pressed against him, but all signs of warmth are lost. Her expression is pained and soured and it hurts, why does it hurt?

"How fast can you run?”

What?

The words aren’t making sense like they’re in a language he can’t translate. Or everyone’s skipped ahead in the story and left him sitting painfully alone in the first chapter. It doesn’t make sense, why isn’t this -

“I said,” her eyes glower, darkness bringing the full force of the oncoming storm at the drop of a hat.

She screams. 

_“How fast can you run?!”_

At once, all bodies turn towards him. Eyes as dark as ink, as dark as the sea, as empty as corpses focus on him. Sullen faces, with crimson tears and gaping mouths. And that panic he hadn’t felt before is suddenly there. Clutching at his heart, making his head spin with the absolute _wrongness_ of it all.

And then, this horrible excruciating sound comes from her. Leaching out from black lips, like the German dive bombers or one of their terrible rocket launchers. A deafening screech of mechanical horror that has him running from the darkening room in a desperate sprint.

The noise follows as the faceless bodies make chase. And on the streets, now the artillery fire is in full force and he can hear every single gut-wrenching explosion. The buildings crumble and the fires rage and the smell of sulfur and rot plagues his senses. 

The Eiffel Tower is burning in an egregious display directly in front of him, tripping over his own feet and the torn-up street as he tries to flee. The metal creaks and bends and snaps as the flaming beams drop from the sky, threatening to hit him and he can’t breathe. 

His chest is shaking and his mouth is full of sand and he can’t catch his breath. And his legs are weighed down by an invisible force because he can barely move at all and his lungs are screaming for air.

The sky is black, the ground is nothing but mud and ash and bodies - _oh god_. Blood, there is so much blood. On his clothes - no, his uniform - and his hands, no. Just the one. And there’s a woman suddenly standing in front of him with soulless eyes.

Her face has turned a sickening color as sharp veins scatter across the once lovely features. And with it, that heinous sound of death is still coming and overpowering his being. A warning of an incoming bomb. An accuser preparing to drop the execution.

But he can’t help it. With one blood-soaked hand, he reaches for her face. Trying to find that person he once knew, deep inside of the corpse now standing in front of him as the sound grows higher and louder and he’s seconds from annihilation but he just wants to feel her one last time -

He wakes.

Not with a shuddering gaping and hollowed scream, but a small intake of breath as his hand curls around the dream phantom. Fingers clutched into a terrible fist as the face drifts away with the waves that awareness brings. And the sickly feeling turning his stomach only worsens as the full scope of the nightmare rears its ugly head.

Through the thin walls of the apartment, he can hear Mr. Henderson’s 6 o'clock tea kettle whistling away - likely waking everyone on the floor as usual.

Bucky flips onto his back, staring up at the cracks and stains of the ceiling as he tries to calm his breathing. Nearly three years now, since the end of the war, and he still has the dreams - still sees her face. Probably deserves it in some sense, in a cruel twist of fate where he lived and they died.

Steve in the middle of the Atlantic, her near the Frontlines. And he gets to relive those deaths on a near-nightly basis. Maybe only once a week if he’s lucky. But that only happens when he’s working off the clock and doesn’t collapse onto his bed until well into the early morning hours.

Even if the cold blood coating his hands and the faceless bodies has him waking with gasps almost every morning in a flush of shameful sweat - he can live with that because he has to. Even when he’s still closing in on dark eyes and a name being wretched out of his body in a terrible primal scream, he just has to move on with the tasks of getting out of bed and finding something suitable to wear. Otherwise, he’ll find himself staring at the cracks in his ceiling for hours on end.

And you know, if he came home with nothing but a missing arm and a head full of nightmares then he must be pretty lucky compared to the others. 

The ones buried off in makeshift cemeteries, missing in camps, or at the bottom of the ocean. But he tries not to think of that too much. Cause when he does, it just becomes a terrible mess in his head and he gets this thing where maybe his breathing is a little harsh and there’s this image of a scrawny little blonde kid popping up in his mind’s eye.

He tries _real_ hard not to think about it.

Alas, he’s up now. Even if it wasn’t for his neighbor’s blatantly inconsiderate behavior for the rest of the floor, he would likely be awake before the sun was rising. Old habits die hard, and even now he finds sleeping in the bed uncomfortable at times.

There’s something comforting with a rigid routine. No questions asked, no deviations. Can’t be overwhelmed or disappointed when your day rarely changes - the guiding path that rarely drifts from the set course. There’s a sense of security that comes with it, he supposes. If your day starts and ends the same verbatim five days a week, and the only change in pace is the lunch special at the deli around the corner or the music playing on the radio, then it must not be too unbearable.

Feet hit the faded wood floor without so much as a flinch at the cooler temperature on the hardened pads of his soles. Bathroom for a piss and a shave. Usual white shirt, trousers, and shoes. The only change up is the tie, but even then it’s only a choice between blue and gray stripes or blue and gray checks. A coat and a hat.

Oh.

And the arm. Can’t forget that. Definitely _can’t forget that_. He hates the way the harness sits and digs into his shoulders. Hates that it’s still a struggle to get it on in the morning sometimes. Maybe his shoes get thrown at the wall as he screams in frustration, who’s to say. 

He’s out the door before seven most days. Choosing the walk to the office because he doesn’t like the attention that comes with public transport. It sure as heck ain’t easy when he became some kind of second-class celebrity at home. If he could just go one week without the staring, and the whispers, and the autographs. At least this way he can get his nicotine and coffee fix on his own terms.

Sure, he’ll give a polite smile to the people holding up trading cards and comics. Because even _he_ can’t deny the eager smile of a kid, eyes shining with dazed wonder at seeing their “hero” in the flesh. It’s the adults he can’t stand, reporters especially. Always looking for the secret stories of his war days. Leeches hoping for dirt on Steve’s off-camera life.

He fixes them with a look, a _no comment_ barely holding back the litany of words he wishes he could say while brushing past the assholes and their little notebooks.

Brooklyn is buzzing to life as he descends the apartment stairs. The milk truck is just rounding the corner and the shops are beginning to change their signs to _open_. 

The streets have been untouched by war. Buildings remain the same as when he was drafted. The air still smells like smog and hot sun-soaked garbage. It’s better than rotting corpses at least. And the people; still the same hardasses as ever. Though, it would be an insult to ignore the lack of a certain demographic. Young men missing from the store shops and dance halls. Kids he went to school with, never brought back to their folks - a folded flag in their place.

Steve didn’t get that. No one of blood to give the letter to. No, the poor jerk got a national headline before anyone in the company had a second to mourn. He still hates the bastard who leaked that before Phillips had a chance to clear it.

Captain America: war hero, sacrificed his life in the line of duty, lost at sea, a symbol to the nation in the face of adversity.

> _“We now return to the Captain America Adventure Program, as triage nurse and Captain America’s sweetheart, Betty Carver, finds herself in the clutches of evil once again!”_

It never fails.

He’s antsy in line, desperately waiting for the man ahead of him to just drop his money and go so he can just buy his bagel and get out of the bakery without incident. But there’s always a holdup. Like a curse seared to his very soul, the program always manages to find a way into his everyday routine, despite his many attempts to avoid the set hour.

> _“Come on, Chucky! There’s evil work at play and we have to save Betty!”_

Charles Roosevelt “Chucky” Burns - the _plucky young sidekick_ of the famous supersoldier. The whole radio program makes the vein on his forehead twitch and threaten to burst. The costume is even worse, but he’s tried to bleach it from his mind.

Steve. God, no one out there knows him as anything but the all-American symbol these days. His legacy has become a marketable image synonymous with eagles and apple pie. Can’t even buy a bagel without the memory of his dead friend popping up to pick at the old scar. The greedy bastards.

The office doesn’t offer much in terms of reprieve either. Coat on the back of the wooden swivel chair, hat on top of the stack of never-ending files, and coffee up to his hungry lips as he crams that bit of bagel into his mouth. Routine, routine, routine. 

It’s funny - how many things you discover that you need both hands for. And even though Stark’s offered a few dozen times over - with increasing excitement - to build him some top of the line thing, he ain’t interested. Some things require two hands. Tying boots, styling his hair the way he used to, using a can opener, hell even buttons were giving him a run for his money at first. And active duty was right off his record, permanently. 

One thing he can proudly do is light a cigarette. It’s comfort, that’s all it is. Holds off the real hunger, keeps the nerves from acting up. Can hold it between his lips and flick the lighter up just fine with his one good hand. Feels a little familiar, some sense of normalcy in an otherwise fucked up situation.

She wouldn’t like it any. Probably pull it right from his lips and stomp it out with a press of her boot. But what did it matter?

She was dead. Had been for some time now.

“Barnes. A word, please.”

Startling slightly, he pops up into a proper sitting position - feet kicked quickly under his desk as Peggy watches him with one of her unreadable expressions. He relaxes his face into something a little more casual. 

“For you? _Always_.”

An easy quip, walking the line of genuine and flirtatious. A mask.

“I could use another set of eyes,” a brown file is dropped in front of him.

Easily flipping it to the proper place with a painted finger, she waits as Bucky glances over the report with lackluster interest. 

“Still on the Lemensky case?”

She nods, hands waiting on her hips, “Yes, a convincing enough cover, but…”

Snapping the file shut, he swivels in the chair to face the fellow agent, legs open in a lazy carefree stance. The old version of himself would have rested his head back against his hands, looking all smug. This one-handed version of himself is only a fragment of that boy. Instead, the end of a pencil is chewed between his lips as he tries to get the morning fog to clear.

“You think there’s more to it than the one operation?”

Leaning over the desk, she flips the file back open to one particular report. Pointing at a line of text after a moment of skimming.

“Residents in the Upper East Side and Midtown. As well as Queens, Brighton Beach, _and_ Long Island.”

His mouth makes that silent little gasp of realization as he settles back in the chair.

“Not exactly vacation home territory if you can’t be assed to leave the area.”

“Well,” her eyes flash with something vying on playful. “It’s not Jersey by any means.”

He lets a smile tug at his lips. Only for her will he let something that genuine appear.

Retrieving the file, Peggy holds it in her already large stack as she straightens even more.

“I was heading to Records,” she fades off, glancing over his head at the director’s room.

He doesn’t need to follow her gaze to know where her irritation lies. Johnson was… well, he wasn’t the best chief, by any means. Too much of a stickler for the book and chain of command. Which is something they rarely adhered to.

“He has you on coffee duty again?” The annoyance laced in his words isn’t even attempting to hide itself. 

She fixes him with a look, “I appreciate your _concern_, James. But leave it be.”

Always _James_ or _Barnes_. Occasionally an _Agent_, or a slip of _Sergeant_. But never _Bucky_. It’s not her place to use it. Hell, he hasn’t been called that in over three years, ever since…

Holding up his hand in a reluctant defeat, he studies her for a moment, then offers, “Need a fill-in?”

The look of internal contemplation followed by relief makes the question worth it in his mind. Sometimes she doesn’t like the help, preferring to do it herself - which he completely understands. But it must be important enough of a case that expediency is valued over personal pride.

She hands over three identical manilla files, “I’m not interested in making a habit of this.”

He concedes, “Wouldn’t imagine it.”

After the morning meeting, where Peggy’s heated expression is enough to make Johnson tug at his sweaty collar no less than thirteen times, Bucky forgoes his own reports and heads down to the archive.

The long room lies behind a steel door, holding the remnants of long-ago missions and volumes of suspect records. As well as files for nearly everyone who ever served with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Rows upon rows of shelves, stuffed to the brim with information and evidence.

Glancing briefly down at the three folders, Bucky decides to go for the big fish first - heading down to the L section in search of Lemensky himself.

The whole place smells like mothballs and mildew. Like the cleaning crews haven’t actually stepped foot in the archive since it was built. Luckily, the wannabe crimelord’s file is easily discovered since it’s the fattest in the box - jam-packed with arrest records and witness statements.

Tucking it under the three folders and returning the box to its rightful place, he moves on to the second alias in the G section.

Another file, though less hefty than the first. And finally into the C’s for a known associate. Cislo, R. is easily found. A well-endowed file of his own making. And, Bucky hoped, a good lead for Peggy.

Just as he was setting the files back in order, a name on one of the tabs causes a full chill to run through his veins.

Looking down at the folders on the floor next to his feet and then at the file. _No_, it can’t be. The box is shoved more forcefully than what is necessary onto the shelf as he gathers up the stack of files with his hand and heads to the main aisle. Footsteps thundering and echoing in his ears as he walks under the obnoxiously bright hanging lights. And he’s almost to the steel door -

But… what if it is?

It’s foolish, incredibly wistfully foolish. Yet it’s enough to send him turning and striding back towards the section he had abruptly left. And even though he knows he’s completely alone in the room, he still can’t help but check the aisle and door for any onlookers.

The box had been knocked back and out of line with the others. Bucky all but throws the stack of folders to the floor as he digs through the box to pull the file free.

_Cissé, G._

So, hopelessly foolish.

Biting his tongue to keep the deep sob that’s threatening to rip out of his chest from breaking free. He stares at the manilla folder and the plain sticker with the typed out name. 

It… it didn’t mean, it wasn’t _necessarily_ her. Any number of people could share the same last name and first initial. It didn’t mean this was her. And yet…

A moment of inner turmoil and then he’s carefully pulling back the cover. He doesn’t know why he was hoping for a picture. But what he sees inside is even worse. Tucking the closed file into his vest with a shuddering breath, he heads back to the office with a head of conflicting thoughts.

The day passes by slowly and he’s far too distracted by the folder burning a hole against his chest to offer much insight on any of the cases brought his way. And for once in his life, he’s out the door when his shift has actually finished. Doesn’t even stop at the bar on the way home to drown his sorrows and memories.

He has only enough patience to toss his coat and hat in the general vicinity of the desk that seconds as a dining table before he’s eagerly pulling out the folder.

Staring at the name on the front, tracing a finger over the skewed printed letters as he plops down on the edge of his bed.

As if waiting for the world around him to break apart, it takes every ounce of courage to tear open the file to that first page.

_Cissé, Gabrielle_

And even lower, the place of birth just confirms it: _Paris, France_.

The urge to vomit is overwhelming as his stomach takes a violent lurch. It’s all too much and he wants to know _why_. What reason SSR has to have a file on _her_. Some unknown nurse from the FFI with no ties to anyone but… _oh_. Him. Of course. 

Flipping the first page over, he finds a detailed report from November of ‘43 - right after the weapons factory. The first time - 

Shaking his head to keep the memories from springing up too violently, Bucky continues through the folder. A mention of her name here and there through a sea of hospital reports and a few instances with the Commandos.

And then he comes to the last page. A small handwritten note paper-clipped to the back of the folder. A name, a date, a vague location, and cause of death. No certificate or official document to mark her death. Just a hastily written mention on a torn-off piece of scrap paper. Signed off by someone and nothing more.

Snapping the folder shut, he stares at the back cover - nostrils flaring with irritation. Knowing that to the government she was nothing more than a side note - another casualty to be marked down in the official record. Not a woman with dreams or love to give. Someone who saw right past his mask and gave him all the grief for it while simultaneously loving his hidden wounds.

The folder flies across the studio apartment, papers scattering in a flurried mess.

Not to him. God, not to him. She was so much more than - even after all this time, he can’t shake the thought of her. And for this stupid file to be found in a complete happenstance of events, it’s just too much to process.

So, Bucky stares at the scattered papers and berates himself for it. For the mess, for even going back for the file in the first place, for the reason the file ends so abruptly. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad if there had been some closure, a final goodbye. Hell, anything at all. Because when he went back to the monastery where she had been stationed outside of Metz, he had looked. Almost tore the room apart trying to find it. But there had been no sight of the journal. And it should have been there with her faded blue-gray bag of belongings.

And it’s always sat with him sort of funny. Something so stupid and otherwise inconsequential. But not to him. It was like having one picture slightly unlevel with the others, just enough of a distraction to know something was wrong. And the missing journal was that, but tenfold. A fiery explosion in his mind.

Three years now. 

It shouldn’t bother him this much, but it does. At least with Steve, there had been something treading on closure in those last few moments. But with her? He just wanted one last anything - it’s why she torments his dreams so much.

After a time, he picks up the papers, stacks them neatly and carefully wedges them into the folder. The scrap note he holds between his fingers for a long moment.

_G. Cissé, KIA Feb. 12, 1945. 7 km from the Front, attacked by Luftwaffe along supply route during patient transport._

And at the very bottom of the note, Bucky now realizes the penmanship has changed. It even looks like it was added after the original note had been written. Just two letters.

_K F_

He doesn’t know what it means. If it’s initials or code for something for filing purposes or what. But whatever it is, it seems to set the rusted gears in his head into motion. Clunking along into a steady rhythm, like a heavy heartbeat. And it just screams _her, her, her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:** The female protagonist, and Bucky's love interest, is a woman of color. Specifically, her parents are immigrants from Senegal. French-born, but unmistakably of African descent. 
> 
> I’ve spent well over two months deep in my research to write this with the upmost care and historical accuracy, but if something is sticking out let me know.
> 
> I was inspired by several historical figures from WWII that haven’t received much modern attention (Josephine Baker, the Senegalese Tirailleurs, black servicewomen from the Caribbean, and the French Resistance). I wanted to write an interesting story that combined the real experiences of people from the time that typically haven’t had a moment in the spotlight - because their stories are really freaking cool.
> 
> This is currently being written without a Beta, but I am taking care to write this mindfully and in no way wish to take attention away from writers of color in the Bucky/Marvel fandom.
> 
> \- Much love, K. 💙


	2. London

The dream fades away with the sharp whistle of Henderson’s 6 o'clock tea kettle, right on schedule as always.

Bucky finds it sort of funny, as he comes to from the realm of restless wandering, how sometimes all he can experience under the heaviness of sleep are flashbacks of the war. But this time, hell, it almost made him laugh. He had actually dreamed he was back in school again. Not the worst dream to have, that’s for sure. Panicking over a test he couldn’t decipher was a far cry from a crimson battlefield.

However, it’s a bit of a startle to discover, after blinking away the remnants of sleep, that the lamp is still on and the sea of papers has slid from the folder to cover the quilt on his bed. Apparently, somewhere between the reports for June and December of ‘44, he had drifted off. The image of a nurse, wearing a very familiar blue coat that was far too big for her frame, in a blanket of freshly fallen snow, tugging him towards an easy rest.

As Bucky sits up, the papers on his chest slide down the sheets until they pool around his legs. Hastily stacked, he jams them back into the file and spins the cord to keep it closed. And then he sits - staring at it. Feeling the heaviness of scattered memories reduced to simplified army reports crushing down against his thighs.

He had spent the better part of the waning night hours reading and studying and imagining. Had carefully traced the letters of her name whenever it appeared in the reports as though it was connecting him right back to the moment in question. Experienced the onslaught of moments he had purposefully locked and stored away with jarring clarity. Field hospitals and monasteries and countless rations of chocolate handed over instead of flowers or a ring.

Somewhere wedged in the middle of the reports, he had stumbled upon a personnel paper. And about halfway down the sheet, a name and address had been given. Her next of kin. And he had stared at it for a long, long while as his stomach twisted and turned with complicated feelings.

_Fatoumata Daour  
14 Admiral Grove, Liverpool, UK_

A name he didn’t recognize in any regard and might even admit to having trouble pronouncing. No relation was listed, but this person was marked down as her next of kin. Could be a relative or even a neighbor. They hadn’t really talked much about extended family then, time was too fleeting for that more often than naught. But the address of Liverpool seemed to spark a hazy memory.

She had escaped there right before the Germans marched into Paris - with her mother and brother, if he remembers correctly. Just in time to be hit by the July bombings of the Blitz. And that’s about the extent of his knowledge for that.

This person, whoever it may be, is a Daour - not a Cissé. Maybe a cousin, maybe a neighbor. Either way, it plays with his mind a bit. And he does find it strange that she wouldn’t put her folks down, but then again he had put Rebecca down for his next of kin when he was drafted. So, who was he to judge?

But now, the insistent clock is ticking away as the car horns blast outside his window. The day awaits. And as he splashes water on his face and gets the prosthetic on before getting dressed, he tries to push away the repeated thoughts of her and the file currently hidden under his mattress. 

The March morning air is cooler today, the sun straining to shine behind the cover of gray clouds. The lingering presence of winter’s ferocity is found with the visible breath from his lips and the frost on the wrought iron lamp posts. 

Paused at the crosswalk for the morning traffic, the newsstand is full of headlines about the Academy Awards from last night and, of course, the little radio is turned right to -

> _“Gee golly, Cap! We’re in a real pickle this time!”_
> 
> _“Nonsense, Chucky. A little patriotism is what we need right about now. Let’s see the Red Skull take on the fist of **justice**!”_

He almost swears in disgust, but clamps his lips together as he spots the little girl staring up at him. Holding her mother’s hand and balancing her school books in the other. Glancing at the traffic to avoid her gaze, he’s entirely grateful when the policeman waves them through. It’s far too early in the day for celebrity sightings anyway.

And at the office - hat placed on the unfinished stack of papers, coat on the back of the chair, the need for coffee buzzing in his brain like a nervous tick - the routine of it all keeps his mind from wandering too far.

“Russell got robbed, ain’t nothing 'bout it. Straight up robbed,” Bill articulates loudly, hovering over Dick’s desk like an unwelcome pest.

Bucky perks up at the conversation, assuming a new case has been started.

“No way. Loretta Young got what she deserved. The Academy _knew_ she deserved it. Hell, she can have all of me while she’s at it too.”

A roll of the eyes at the realization that it’s just rough celebrity gossip.

“Young, Russell, any of them broads would be running into my arms at the sight of you.”

Kicking his feet up onto the edge of his desk, he joins in unprompted, “You’re both insane if you think either of you would stand a chance with a celebrity.”

That grabs the pudgy agent’s attention, moving towards Bucky’s desk with a pompous stride.

“You would know all 'bout that, wouldn’t ya, Jimmy boy?”

He twiddles a stray pencil between his fingers, trying to ignore that flash of red hot rage trying to rear its ugly head.

“I ain’t nothing on that level, Bill. Trust me, you won’t be seeing my mug on some fancy-ass red carpet any time soon.”

The agent seems conflicted - whether to accept the admission or keep prodding the wound with a fat round finger.

“Yeah, well,” he pulls at the waist of his pants like he’s some big well-to-do hotshot. “Dames like them probably want two arms to hold them anyway, huh? How does that work, ya know, in the sack?”

Burning fury covers his vision in a bang of unrelenting thrill. Eyes hardened to steel as he glares up at the agent’s blotchy red face. Voice threading a thin line between cocky and dangerous, “I don’t know. How 'bout ya ask ya sister?”

A shocked sound breaks from Bill’s throat and he looks ready to start throwing punches and Bucky welcomes it. Loves the jolt of adrenaline that runs through him at the prospect of a fight. To get it all out and hold nothing back. Bare his teeth and let the inner animal free. He’s ready to stand up and square up when a familiar clicking of heels comes to rest behind him.

“Agent Denson,” Peggy tuts with unbridled authority. “I do hope I’m not interrupting something _important_. But the Chief needs you to file these - ” she deposits a heavy stack of papers into the agent’s arms with a blatant carelessness, “ - before the meeting.”

When he just gapes at the papers and then back at her, Peggy continues sharply, “I would get to it, if I were you.”

It seems to light the fire under his ass as he glowers away to his desk and the office returns to business as usual. Peggy, however, remains standing with a cutting look.

“Dare I ask?”

Sweeping his legs down and back under the desk, and exchanging his pencil for a pen, Bucky sets about signing off on his last few reports.

“Just ranting 'bout the Academy Awards last night. Watch it?”

He can feel the eye roll without being witness to it, “Hardly my idea of enthralling entertainment.”

He mutters, as memories of the previous night cloud his focus from the file in front of him and his hand tightens just that much more around the pen, “You and me both.”

* * *

The morning meetings have an uncanny way of turning into the _afternoon_ meetings, ever since Johnson took over as their Chief. The monotonous and grinding nature of his voice makes Bucky feel like he’s in his US History class all over again. Just droning on and on with absolutely no sense of urgency, even when Peggy or the other agents try to steer things forward.

“And,” Johnson’s voice slides slowly through the fog of his underlings’ contempt. “We need a man to accompany the US Ambassador to London this weekend.”

Bucky sits with his head in his hand, trying to blink away the tiredness that wants to envelop him. Didn’t have time for coffee earlier - too busy with his internal seething after the almost-altercation, followed by having nowhere to expel his energy outside of his scrawling pen. But now that he was sat here with nothing to do, nothing to keep his hands busy, he finds his mind wandering more and more to _her_.

Not that it didn’t naturally drift to her over the years. That would be a bald-faced lie. She was the underlying pulse in his veins, the little _thump_ of his heartbeat that followed the initial _thump_. A lingering echo seared forever into his soul. She was always there, even after all this time. 

But this file had absolutely sparked something inside of his ugly torn heart and made him _feel_ something outside of the lingering bitterness and radiating anger that came with his honorable discharge papers.

“Truman’s working on some new thing and our guy needs to make good with Britain to smooth it off and get things moving in the right direction.”

Hell, she was always there, in his thoughts. She had a way of slotting into his routine. Shaving in the morning? A memory of her wiping some unwashed cream from his face. Getting coffee? She drank what they had available at the camp, of course, but always longed for cream and sugar. Louis was playing on the radio?

_We can’t listen to that American music here. His music is that of Jean Sablon - helps people sneak it past the Germans._

“And we’re being pulled because….?” someone asks with dripping irritation. 

“Hey, they got their hands tied up with the HUAC. Hell if they can scrap together even two men to help,” He looks for a reaction but finds none. “Look, I’ve got my hands tied here. It’s us or no one.”

_Said, when I’m taking sips from your tasty lips / Seems the honey fairly drips / You’re confection goodness knows / Honeysuckle rose_

When no one seems moderately interested in the task, Johnson gets a hint of desperation in his voice, “Look, fellas, I just need _one guy_ to get him to the embassy. Hang around for a while and, damn, I’ll give you two days to putz around or whatever.”

The fog seems to clear as Bucky’s head resets and replays the word _London_ and the promise of a weekend off a few times over. Maybe it’s the intervention of a higher power, but he knows that something must be lining up in his cards if this opportunity is being dropped in front of him after finding her file just the day before. With an idea quickly formulating in his mind, he finds himself saying, “I’ll do it.”

A few heads turn to stare at him in some kind of astonishment. Even Johnson gives him a curious look. While he slowly, and rather dumbly, realizes what he actually signed himself up for just now.

“You got it, Barnes. Take a whole week, all I care. Can’t remember the last time you took a vacation.”

_Never_ is the responding answer in his head.

* * *

Lunch is a rarity, but somehow he finds himself actually eating a real sandwich as Peggy studies his face intently. He becomes more self-conscious with her scrutiny, wiping a bit of mayo from the corner of his mouth after setting the sandwich down on the wrapper.

“What’s in London?” she asks after a slow moment, her own food left untouched on the desk behind her. Seemingly focusing all her efforts into prying answers from him with the promise of food.

News was rarely contained in the office and Bucky can’t help but wonder if Peggy knew he volunteered for the job the day it happened. And if she’s just now bringing it up, two days after the fact, to seem like she doesn’t know about everything that happens in the building at any given time. 

Another bite of his free lunch; a distraction, “A vacation?”

“_Oh_,” she tuts in a clear way that says she doesn’t believe an ounce of his lies. “You’ve had more than enough time for one of those. Why now? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Can’t a guy take a break for once?”

Her silent stare would be unsettling if he hadn’t known her for almost five years now. It could make suspects break, and the worst of agents freeze up, for him though? That pointed look just made his hair stand on end, that’s all. A slight chill down his spine on occasion. 

“Thought you’d be all over it actually,” Bucky deflects, wading up the sandwich wrapper with his hand.

“Yes, well. I hardly have time for that sort of thing, do I?”

He aims the paper ball for the wire trash bin and just misses it.

“How is Sousa, by the way?” He knows he’s hitting a sensitive nerve, but he just wants the conversation (more like the unofficial questioning) to be over with.

That earns a cross look from her that reads: _Never you mind_.

She never talks about her family or any relationships. Wasn’t really the place for it, despite their tentative friendship. But at least she was moving on from things, where he seemed to be regressing backwards through false hopes and memories.

Peggy ignores his question in favor of her own, “Will you be staying the whole week?”

Rocking in his chair by the push of his feet against the floor, he muses for a moment, “Probably. Wanna see if I can’t get Falsworth around.”

Her expression softens and he feels internal relief from it. Hoping that his ruse might just be convincing enough to pass the Carter test.

“How long has it been since you boys - ”

“'46,” he responds with instant recall. 

They managed to all get together just the one time after the war. It was going to be a tradition of sorts, for old war buddies to meet up on the date of their fallen Captain’s death; a tribute of sorts. Seven shot glasses, one left upside down on the bartop. 

But Falsworth and Dernier lived across the sea. And the rest of them that lived stateside seemed to be moving on with their own lives as well. Morita was married out in California, starting a family of his own. He hadn’t even talked to Gabe since last year. And Dugan was damn near unreachable, always out of the house and away on _business_. What business that was exactly, Bucky wasn’t sure.

Sometimes, as much as the companionship was welcomed, he was glad for the drop-off in correspondence. Didn’t need to reminisce everything in a single drunken night and rehash the same old stories. Be reminded of her and Steve. Be reminded that everyone was really moving on in life, or at least acting like it.

“Well,” Peggy starts with a thoughtful look. “Perhaps this will be good for you after all.”

Distractedly nodding, his mind already falling to an ongoing list of things to do before the end of the week. A call to his mother that he’ll be missing Sunday dinner (again), bags to pack, an Ambassador’s profile to memorize, a stolen file to hide -

“However…”

Bucky focuses back on the agent across from him as her tone shifts.

There seems to be some hesitation at play before Peggy finally relents to it, “Good luck getting ahold of him. He’s a particularly busy man these days.”

And with that, she picks up her uneaten meal and returns to her own desk at the back of the office by the windows. Leaving him with disjointed feelings and an ominous bit of advice.

It’s only at the end of the workweek, on the night before he’s due to leave for England, that Peggy wordlessly slides a file under his hat on the way out. Not even sparing him a glance over the shoulder as she leaves the office. 

He’s one of the last agents still in the building, naturally, so he feels no reason to be overly cautious in viewing the discreetly handed-off file. After an instinctual glance behind him, Bucky pulls the file across his desk. On the cover, in large bold print, reads:

> **INV-7**  
**UNION JACK**  
_CLASSIFIED_

* * *

Ambassador Duncan was overwhelmingly thrilled to have a Howling Commando on his security detail. Damn near shaking Bucky’s one good arm right out of the socket when he met the party at the airport. And the morning flight across the Atlantic left little time for sleep, as the Ambassador wanted to trade old war stories - having been a veteran of the Great War himself.

He wanted to hear all about what regiment and where in Europe his father served and did Bucky know he received a medal of honor from Belgium for acts of heroic valor on the battlefield? 

Bucky nodded and responded appropriately. Laughed when required. Also trying to hide the frustration and exhaustion from the man because he seemed genuine in his regaling. That he had an opportunity to speak with someone on a similar plane of experience and was going to take full advantage of it when offered the chance.

The two other guards from the State Department seemed to have it made at the table by the inflight bar, smoking and playing a card game. Bucky longed for the normalcy they had. Wished he wasn’t viewed on some kind of pedestal to certain people where things were expected of him. Words of wisdom, great tales of heroism, and an All-American smile to top it off with. 

The journey from the airport to the Embassy was a blur, in all honesty. And once the Ambassador was checked in and settled for the night, Bucky all but collapsed into his own hotel bed sometime around two in the morning.

And the next day, when he’s fighting the exhaustion still, Duncan shoos him away to get in some sightseeing and wasn’t it ridiculous the amount of security an Ambassador needed in his own damn Embassy? And while it did seem the two State Department goons had things covered, Bucky felt like he had just hitched a free ride across the Atlantic and nothing more.

But, it did give him a chance to make a phone call.

Returning to his floral-wallpapered hotel room after a short breakfast, Bucky situates himself on the frilly mustard yellow bed. Using the file that Peggy had gifted him, he dials in the number on the rotary phone and holds his breath.

_“Falsworth residence,”_ a prim-sounding woman answers after a minute of the operator connecting lines.

There seems to be a divide between his mouth and his brain because he stalls for a moment too long.

_“Hello?”_

Picking his mouth off the floor, “Yes - ma'am. Uh, is Montgomery Falsworth there?”

_“**Lord** Falsworth is presently disposed and isn’t expected back for some time now.”_

Yeah, Bucky was very aware now of what exactly the Brit had been doing in his Post-War life. Spending a portion of his time near Poland trying to track down some Baron or another. 

_“Is there a message you wish to give?”_ she prompts when he fails to respond.

“Uh,” it’s honestly disturbing how frazzled this phone call is making him and he hates every single reaction he’s having to it. When had his confidence started to crack and deteriorate? Was it before or after his arm was hit with the full force of a flame thrower? He couldn’t remember. 

“Yeah, uh. Just tell him, tell him that Sergeant Barnes is in London - at the American Embassy.”

* * *

He carries out the basic duties that come with being a security detail for a major government official. Standing and watching. Sitting at the table behind the Ambassador at a restaurant while he discusses current political climates with the British government heads. 

And he watches. Every movement and change in the pace of the other patrons. Watching the way the British security seems to be sizing up the Americans in the room. It feels good to have the added security of a gun on his person again. Like a second skin he didn’t really know he was missing.

And while he’s later informed that the talks will be going on for some time, things do seem to be heading in a good direction. For whatever that’s worth. Which isn’t much to him, in all honesty.

It’s on Tuesday - only four days into the trip - that an office receptionist approaches him with a message while the Ambassador is in a closed-door meeting.

He meets Falsworth in the Running Horse, only a short walk from the Embassy, less than twenty minutes later. Even among a sea of patrons, he’s able to spot his old comrade in the back of the heavily wood-paneled room with the forest green painted walls.

Montgomery is quick to stand, offering out his hand to Bucky like a silent apology for all the time that’s passed them. 

There’s a rush of memories that floods the contact when they meet together in a firm handshake. As nearly two years of service side-by-side is brought to a standstill at the sight of the two men who made it out the other side.

After a moment, the Brit hesitantly claps Bucky’s right shoulder warmly, “Well. You look like shit.”

It feels good; familiar. 

“Not so hot yourself, English.”

* * *

Lord James Montgomery Falsworth lived just north of London in a stately manor that had been in his family for generations. And that fact alone gave Bucky all the more reason to feel entirely inadequate with his small tenement apartment in the city. 

And while he was a nobleman in his own right, the Brit spent the majority of his time under a mask gallivanting around as a hero for the British government. It seemed that war didn’t bring an end to evil. It just turned the soil for a new seed of villainy to flourish.

But outside of the more glamorous aspects of his life, little had changed since the end of the war. In fact, he looked younger - if that was even possible. The fully shaven face was hard to ignore when Bucky had been in close proximity to that blasted mustache one too many times before. But Falsworth looked good. Where he felt… not even remotely secure in his appearance.

It’s difficult, even after all this time, to not have the instinct to place his left hand on the table, mindlessly play with the napkin, or ruffle his hair. Instead, there’s a next to useless prosthetic resting heavily against his side.

Falsworth listened to Bucky’s brief explanation of his true reasoning for being in the country - with little interruption. But now that he’s exhausted himself with the tale, the other man finally has a chance to inquire.

“Why now?” the Brit ponders. 

For that, Bucky doesn’t have a proper answer, so he just shakes his head tiredly. 

How can you easily explain to someone the vastness of what you feel? As though your life was a book and someone had torn the middle pages right out - leaving a hole that couldn’t be filled. No words could take its place or heal the tear. But then, a small scrap of a single sentence of a page had been found. And now, like a madman, he was desperately chasing after the breadcrumbs to discover the story that had been stolen from him.

“I don’t know, man. Feels like… someone’s moving the pieces and I’m just watching from a distance or something.”

Falsworth slowly lowers his pint, features shadowed by the gentle glow of the overhead orange-colored pub lights. “Fate, Barnes?”

He doesn’t find judgment or skepticism in the man’s look, which he wasn’t expecting to find anyway, but he’s able to release the tense breath he was holding regardless.

“_Maybe?_” Bucky relents. “It was just too convenient to find the file _and_ have the job drop the next day.”

His companion nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the table for a moment, “Why _do they_ have a file on her anyway? She wasn’t exactly an agent, now, was she.”

“Best guess?” His fingers tap restlessly against his pint as a chill runs through his veins, “Me.”

Monty makes a little _ahh_ sound of understanding. 

The strangeness of the past week was an overwhelming weight in his chest that squeezed and contracted around his heart with each measly step forward. Maybe this was finally the last part of his grief. If he could get some actual closure, then maybe… maybe he could really move on.

And then his companion is straightening up in his seat, folding his arms on the table as his expression seems to change.

“Well then. The only question I have for you now is: why the devil does it have to be Liverpool?”

A lazy smile tugs at his lips.

They talk for another hour or so, to the point where neither one is overstaying their welcome or pushing boundaries, but enough to feel the comfortable buzz of alcohol and reminiscing. And while Falsworth does voice his distaste for the northern city, he seems to understand the desire for answers radiating from Bucky’s core. He gives him directions to a station that will take him right to the city, a three-hour journey across the countryside. 

And when they finally part in front of the pub, it’s with the knowledge that it will be some time before they cross paths again; and that seems to be okay.

* * *

While the Ambassador has immediate plans to continue the previous day’s closed-door meeting, Bucky is granted permission to travel into the city. Which actually means catching a bus to the nearest train station after ten in the morning. 

Watching the city pass by through the haze of morning rain - watercolor landscapes of brick and iron giving way to lush greens and dots of bright-colored plants. With the sun rising slowly in the sky, his mind drifts further than he’s allowed it to in a very long time as the train passes a small village church.

> The sky is dotted with brilliant pinks and yellows, a heavenly halo amid the backdrop of death and destruction that follows him like a shadow. Bucky watches the sun rise above the horizon, the same sun that would later rise in Brooklyn. The same sun he had been seeing all his life, but somehow this sunrise seems more heavenly than every single one of them.
> 
> “You know,” she’s standing there next to him at the courtyard gate, breath visible in the chilled morning air. “I had thought this was a view I could never grow used to.”
> 
> “That so?” he asks, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, hands resting on his belt to keep from wandering, gaze still fixed on the slow change of colors streaking across the sky.
> 
> He can see her nod, just within his peripheral. Same pink headscarf as yesterday, her thin coat pulled tight against her neck as the wind blows across the treetops. 
> 
> He longs to pull her close, tug her into his space and wrap her up with his own body heat. Kiss the delicate wrists peeking out from the coat sleeves and memorize every line on her palms with feather-light touches.
> 
> And then he turns to meet her gaze, eyes as dark as the charcoal he used to sketch her late last night. Her voice is like a whisper, an admission for only him to hear even though they are utterly alone outside the makeshift hospital. But even then, maybe it’s not private enough with the world around them still bearing witness to it.
> 
> A hint of a smile on her chapped lips, “I think it may have just gotten better.”

The train lurches and creaks and groans as it pulls into the station and ultimately jolts him from a light sleep. 

It takes some asking around at the station, to get any sense of direction for the address, but a less than enthused ticketer is able to point him in a general route for the neighborhood of Toxteth. 

The streets of the city are surprising. Maybe he had gotten too used to a world untouched by real war back in the States, but here they had experienced the full force of the Luftwaffe. And it still shows, several years later.

Buildings are still crumbling and vacant, piles of rubble everywhere he looks with children using them as their makeshift playgrounds. Barely a car goes by as he journeys further into the city. And that’s when normal life seems to pause for the residents as they watch the obvious stranger encroaching upon their neighborhood.

Bucky tries to keep his head down and move briskly along the main road, looking for a sign to point him in the right direction. But it’s fairly obvious that he does not belong here. With his sturdy polished shoes and untarnished clothes. Where he felt small in comparison to Falsworth yesterday, now he feels like the rich lord and it’s painfully uncomfortable. 

After twenty minutes of walking, he finally relents and approaches a woman hanging up laundry in front of her house, asking for directions to Admiral Street. She seems wary of him - as if she doesn’t entirely believe that’s what he’s here for. But after a reassuring word, she sends him further down the tightly clamped streets.

And that’s when he spots a boy at the end of the street. A boy, no more than ten, who seems even further out of place than Bucky does. Wearing a button-down shirt and tie, with knee-high shorts; the boy passes for a local. But his hair and the color of his skin stick him out from just about everyone Bucky had passed so far.

He watches the boy disappear down a side street with a bundle of books, looking over his shoulder as he hurries along. And when he finally reaches the curb, Bucky isn’t too surprised to see the sign reading _Admiral Grove_.

It’s only when he’s standing outside of the rough brick terrace, with a faded blue door that has the number _14_ in rusted brass next to it, that he feels an absolute sense of dread.

Because he made it this far. After a series of oddly-time happenstance, and a shred of hope, he’s standing on the brink of a moment that’s hard to fully put into words. But to hell, if he didn’t come all this way across the sea to just freeze up outside of a stranger’s door.

He raps his knuckles against the door before he can talk himself out of it.

A series of muffled, bickering voices comes a moment later before the door is unlocked and carefully cracked open.

A woman stands before him with warm beige skin and dazzling bronze cheeks. Shooing someone behind the door with a wave of her hand before finally exiting the flat. Her hair is hidden underneath a bright blue-printed headscarf.

She looks just like… 

_One day, you will meet my mother._

Her expression is cautious with the presence of a strange man at her doorstep, but her eyes are severe - like she’s prepared to dole out a verbal lashing that would put his own mother’s to shame. But they’re nearly identical to…

_I can not say what she will think of you._

Out of pure instinct alone, he takes a careful step back as he pulls his hat from his head - tucking it just under the crook of his right arm. It’s as though he’s staring into a future that never was. She’s there, but older. Her eyes are more calculated than soft. And her skin is far lighter in tone than he could remember, but this person before him could be a near copy of…

_But I hope she will see how much I care for you. How much I love you and you me._

She waits, expectantly, with a hand on her hip and the other on the door. Bucky’s never felt so small in the presence of anyone but Winnifred Barnes before. The knowledge of that alone is enough to make his tongue feel tied up in knots.

“Ma'am,” he finally greets.

She says nothing, watching him like he’s a snake waiting for the chance to strike.

“I’m James Barnes.”

He doesn’t even want to attempt the first name from the file for fear of butchering it beyond recognition, so he goes for the simpler route, “Are you, uh, are you Mrs. Daour?”

“I am.”

Her voice is clipped by a strange mingling of accents he can’t quite place at the present moment.

“Did you know Gabrielle Cissé?”

It’s blunt and to the point, but he can’t wait a moment more. And that earns him a hardened look. If it would have been a punch, he would be flat on his back no doubt. 

“Of what use is it to you?” Words come slowly but purposefully.

He, however, speaks immediately and woefully honest, with a knee-jerk reaction, “_Everything_.”

She studies him up and down for a terrifying, silent moment that seems to hold everything on the line. Her eyes travel from his face, to his hat, and finally to his prosthetic arm - which he instinctively wants to hide from view.

After a moment,

“You said your name was Barnes?” asked with a raised eyebrow. 

He seizes the opportunity and steps forward with a sense of urgency, “Yes. James Barnes, ma'am.”

A slow deciding nod follows. And then the door is pushed open further as she drops her hands to her sides, as though relinquishing control to a higher power.

“Come. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Barely believing that it’s actually happening, it takes effort to force his body to move. But before she can usher him inside, he reaches into his front coat pocket and pulls a hastily wrapped package out.

It’s pure muscle memory from the times she made him repeat this single action until he had it perfected to her standard. 

> She hands him the balled-up handkerchief with clearly amused eyes. Trying, and failing, to conceal a laugh as she ducks her head away from him.
> 
> He feels absolutely ridiculous. But somehow, when she said she wanted him to meet her parents one day, after the war was over (if there was ever such a day), it felt like a more solidifying promise than any golden ring he could give her would ever manage.
> 
> “You want to make a good impression, yes?”
> 
> He nods, but his dopey smile can’t be fully contained in her presence as she struggles to rein in her own amusement.
> 
> “Both hands, right?”
> 
> She hums in reply, waiting patiently before him, “And chocolate is always good, but pastry or fruit will work too.”
> 
> His hands lower as a smirk tugs at his lips, “Is that where you inherited your little sweet tooth?”
> 
> Her laugh catches in the sunlight, slow-dripping and rich as honey - but twice as sweet. A smile seared right to his heartstrings as she breathlessly laughs, “James!”

She stares at the rectangular parcel and then to his face, seemingly confused by the sincerity of the action from a complete stranger. She takes it, gingerly holding it in her hands.

He had spent too much time than what should have been necessary browsing the shelves of the small shop by the train station, trying to find just the perfect thing. Because it seemed like the right thing to do. And if this woman hadn’t turned out to be who he thought she was, then he would have had some chocolate for himself. 

She gives him a nod of thanks before stepping aside to allow him into her home. Entering the rich-smelling room with a sudden awestruck sense of wonder, realizing that he may actually get some answers at long last, as the woman carefully closes the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ANNOTATIONS**
> 
> **1.** The 20th Academy Awards took place March 20, 1948. Rosalind Russell was the favorite for Best Actress but the award ultimately went to Loretta Young.
> 
> **2.** Truman’s Marshall Plan was an initiative to give foreign aid to Western Europe for economic recovery after the War. It was effective April 3, 1948.
> 
> **3.** During the Occupation of France and America’s later entry into the war, all American music was banned. Paris was the epicenter of jazz in Europe and people were unwilling to give it up. They created the belief that jazz was a French creation by renaming songs (_St Louis Blues_ became _Tristesses de St Louis_) and crediting the music of American artists to French musicians (Louis Armstrong’s songs were accredited to Jean Sablon).
> 
> **4.** The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was formed in 1938 to investigate anyone with alleged Communist ties and was an integral part of the Red Scare.
> 
> **5.** In the comics, Falsworth was actually a WWI hero under the identity of Union Jack. And he first appeared in _The Invaders_ \- #7. His main opponent was Baron Blood, his brother turned-vampire.
> 
> **6.** The Ambassador is based on real life American politician Lewis Douglas. He played a key role in passing and implementing the Marshall Plan.
> 
> **7.** Liverpool was heavily hit during the Blitz because it was a key supply port. And Liverpool is home to Britain’s oldest Black community, dating back to the 1730s. Toxteth, an inner-city area of Liverpool, had the Free French Legion stationed there during the War.


	3. Merseyside

Even with the light of an early afternoon looming outside the terrace house, the entry room is surprisingly dark. Perhaps it's a mixture of the deep blue paint on the walls and a lack of windows. But for someone who's retained the same address for nearly eight years, the entire room is shockingly _stark_ in its design.

Gabi had carried a certain style with her. Bucky knew that much because of the number of times she would reminisce on her childhood home in Paris, in the quiet moments hidden away together. She would tell him about the fantastic decor that had adorned the walls - elaborate pieces here and strange trinkets from her parent's home country there.

But the sight that greets Bucky is just void: empty of personal touch and comfortable familiarity. 

Maybe the war lingered longer than he realized, especially for the ones who fled - the ones who could never return or recover from the ashes of devastation. How could you return home when it was destroyed? How do you pick up the pieces and move on from it? 

Even three years later, the effects are still showing in the piles of rubble on the street outside and the crumbling structures throughout the city. But instead of digging out lost neighbors from the wreckage, children are using them as a cheap playground. The horrific irony isn't lost on him.

The only decor - if you could even be rude enough to call it that - are the lines of hanging linens and stacks of folded clothes. Maybe she was working as a laundrywoman. Bucky thinks he can recall something about her being a seamstress before the war, but he's mannered enough not to pry.

Mrs. Daour circles around him, her long skirt brushing past as she settles in front of him - between the doorway leading into what seems to be a kitchen.

If she's bothered by him seeing the state of her house, she doesn't show it. He knows his own mother would be mortified if any houseguest saw her laundry spilled about. But this woman before him is clearly proud and something as simple as white linens hanging up doesn't appear to alarm her hosting abilities.

"My daughter, she wrote of you." She walks into the kitchen, he goes to follow as she adds over her shoulder, "Often."

There's a swell in his chest that comes with that single word. A small flame igniting itself in the long-forgotten hearth that housed his fragile heart.

He watches as the older woman carefully unfolds his meager present. She gives him a small nod with a pleased smile - telling him that he just managed to get his foot in the metaphorical door. But she pushes it to the side as she goes about getting a kettle filled with water.

"You are American," she states it so plainly, but he can't help getting caught up on the different accents that seem to be fighting for control in her voice. French and English ‐ that unmistakable accent from her home country causing certain letters to come out sharper or looser than one would typically pronounce them as.

He gives a tilt of the head, fidgeting with his hat as he looks around the small kitchen, "Yes, ma'am. I served in the 107th during the war. That's how I met - "

"My daughter," her stare is sudden and intense in its nature. It makes him feel that much smaller in his conviction. "Yes, so she said."

Bucky takes a chance by setting his hat down on the edge of the kitchen table. And while he's looking over the pale yellow cabinets, a chill seems to run up his spine - causing him to turn his head and finding a small face peering around the corner of the doorway at him. It was the boy that he saw in the street earlier. Her baby brother.

Before he can speak, the woman is already on top of the intrusion. 

"Michel," she admonishes. "We have a guest. Come sit."

The boy straightens up, Bucky tries to give him a comforting smile. It probably wasn't every day they had a stranger on their doorstep. Let alone someone who looked like him.

"Yes, Mamagou."

He takes a tentative seat across from Bucky, eyeing him warily - much like his mother had at the door.

"Hello," Bucky offers as the woman busies herself behind the boy.

He seems to find his hands very fascinating because he's staring at them folded together on the table and decidedly _not_ at Bucky. There's a sharp and ugly streak of red along his temple - a cut that was obviously cleaned quickly upon coming home. 

When silence seems to greet him, the woman thumps the back of his head as if to say _don't be rude_.

"Hello," is the resigned echo.

The boy couldn't be older than ten, judging by the shorts in place of pants, or should he say _trousers_. His school tie still sits loosely around his neck as he stares blankly downwards - as though Bucky's presence is enough to set his nerves ablaze. 

Bucky watches as a single drop of blood falls from his forehead, landing silently on the wooden tabletop. When a cup of tea is placed in front of him, Bucky finds himself grateful for the distraction.

Mrs. Daour takes a heavy seat across from him, next to her son. She also eyes the poorly hidden injury, but she just pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and pointedly holds it in front of him. 

"Go on."

The boy groans and snatches it away before disappearing from the room without another word. Bucky makes out the sound of feet on a staircase and a door closing above them.

Her eyes follow the kid, before adding, "He can fix those up usually."

But she doesn't apologize for having Bucky witness that, he knows his own mother would be horrified if anyone saw _him_ in such a state. However, the woman across from him just gathers a rag up and wipes the table off without another word.

It's then that Bucky realizes that she reminds him less of his own mother and more of Sarah Rogers, God rest her soul. Unable to count the number of times he had pulled Steve up the flight of stairs to their tenement house. She would just stare at them with a shake of her head and grab the cloth wraps and lye. God, he misses her and Steve.

After a tense moment, Bucky takes a tentative sip of the tea - he _was_ a coffee man, after all. 

She stares at him with calculating eyes and a tight-lipped expression. Even with the harshness of it, he can't help but take in the resemblance she holds to her daughter. Her dark hair is hidden from view by the patterned headscarf. A gray knit cardigan covering her arms too. But those eyes, so familiar. He soaks in the chance to capture maybe one final image of Gabrielle while he can.

Her teacup is placed upon the saucer with an audible _clink_ before she gathers her elbows on the table, hands in an entwined fist, as she stares at him.

"Why are you here, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky copies the motion by putting his own cup down. Gripping his right knee with his hand as he scoots his chair a little closer to the table.

"I, uh, was on an assignment in London, ma'am." He feels his fingernails dig into the fabric of his pants, "The opportunity to come up here and finally _meet you_ was just too great to pass up, you know?"

A nervous hand rakes through his styled-back hair as his heart slams in his chest, finding himself unable to maintain eye contact with her for longer than a moment.

There should be a comforting hand on his arm. A gentle whisper of reassurance under the midnight gaze of sweet eyes. But only the hammer of his own heart and the racing of his thoughts is there to comfort him today.

She has the courtesy to nod, but her eyes remain hardened. 

"And… you knew we were here?"

There's a noticeable wince in his features before soldiering on, "I knew you were in Liverpool, yeah. Gabi mentioned it a few times before."

Leaving out the fact that the U.S. government had a file on Gabrielle Cissé, Bucky watches as the older woman's brows raise high at the mention of his nickname for her daughter. And he can't help but wonder if he's already overplayed his hand.

She takes a long drink from her cup then.

It occurs to him that he's faced down countless criminals and spies in his time Post-War. But sat here, in front of the mother of the woman he loved, well. Suddenly he feels like a gangly teenager meeting his prom date's parents for the first time with all the hidden expectations in a hardened glare. This isn't how this was supposed to go.

"What is it you want now?"

Absently, he pulls on the thread along his pants' outer seam line. Swallowing before looking up hopefully, "To talk?"

Her expression is curiously drawn, "_Talk_?"

"Well," the thread comes loose between his index finger and thumb, Bucky continues pulling. 

"I… I haven't talked about her with anyone who knew her since, uhm, since…" he trails off before clearing his throat. "It's been a while. And I only knew her for a little less than two years. So, it'd be nice to just _hear_ about her again from someone who knew her in a different part of life, ya know?"

The thread pulls free as he rolls it between his fingers into a small ball before pocketing it.

Mrs. Daour gives him a broken look, her dark eyes shimmering as she reads his face. "Your heart is heavy," she surmises.

Bucky swallows.

"So was mine. For a very long time."

Her teacup and saucer are pushed to the side. Folding her arms on the table with a heavy sigh, she begins.

"You knew of how we came to be here?"

He's eager to please, nodding, "During the Fall of Paris, right?"

"_L'Exode_," she pronounces with a familiar French accent. "We were lucky. Gabrielle was. She carried _him_," she gestures out the door, where Michel had disappeared minutes before, "on her back, the whole way. From Saint-Malo, Pornichet, _La Rochelle_."

> Her fingers trace his lips in the light of the moon shining through the abbey's broken window. Wrapped up under the thin green army-issued blanket on the nurse's cot. His blue wool coat is an extra barrier laid on top to defend against the cold. 
> 
> Her breath is warm against his neck as she speaks softly to the nighttime air, her gaze lost somewhere in the paleness of his chest. 
> 
> "We were lucky. My Ba was called to the Front by a neighbor before they broke through the lines. He told us to grab the valuables and run to the seaports."
> 
> Her gentle voice waivers, "We still don't know for sure if he was … if he's _still_ \- " She breaks off with a helpless tremble and small shake of the head.
> 
> It takes a quiet moment of time before she presses on, reassured by the heavy weight of his hand on her back.
> 
> "It was the third port, La Rochelle, that had a ship with room for the three of us. We went to England with the other refugees. Just in time for the bombs to start falling on the city a month later."
> 
> She chokes down a broken laugh and he smooths his hand over her neck, shushing her with a wisp of breath. A long kiss to her temple, just below the knot of her pink headscarf. 
> 
> And then she looks up at him with her deep brown eyes. He sees the stars dancing in them - thinks of a distant universe exploding into existence somewhere in the inky pools of her irises.
> 
> "Fate must have something planned for me."
> 
> Bucky grasps her hand in his, tenderly kissing her knuckles while holding her gaze - letting the affection speak for him in the soft moment of a secret night.

Mrs. Daour fusses with something under her fingernail before continuing, "Did you know Free French was set up here? Lucky, lucky. She was gone by the fourth month - when we got the letter about Issidra."

_Her brother_, if Bucky recalls right, who was killed during the invasion. He stares down into the amber liquid of his rapidly cooling tea.

She waves her hand nonchalantly, as though brushing away the memories themselves.

"Did her training and then was gone to North Africa before the new year. _And_," the older woman taps the table tensely, punctuating each word with a waiver of her voice, "she never came back."

Bucky clears his throat, "I'm… I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't imagine what that must have been like for you - "

She lifts her head suddenly, "Can't you? Your heart is there, yes?"

Glancing at her pointed finger, he realizes that she's referring to his shirt sleeve. Bucky can't help but huff a laugh before amusedly eyeing her, "That obvious, huh?"

He's grateful to see the hint of a smile playing on her warm beige face. 

"I may not understand, but I am not blind, Mr. Barnes. She never said, in those letters, but it was there."

There's a rush of warmth in his chest. Bucky likes the way she says his name. It reminds him of something that might have been. Sunday dinners and little wrapped presents and stories of a certain girl's childhood. But it was all extinguished in the fraction of a terrible minute five miles from the French border.

After a moment, he watches the smile fade from her features, her gaze drawn down to the table for a brief moment, "I had three children and I lost all three. Lu metti yàggul te ku muñ muuñ. Grief does nothing for the living, but we carry it always."

Bucky nods numbly. Finding the weight of his own grief's reappearance after all this time to be a difficult thing to properly handle in his less than capable hands.

She stands then, grabbing the small thing of chocolate from the counter and returning it back to the table. Breaking off a piece, the older woman hands it to him. Bucky feels like he shouldn't, it was his gift to them after all, but it'd be more rude to not accept it. So, he gingerly takes it and nods his head in thanks.

After taking a piece for herself, clearly savoring the rich taste of it, Bucky then takes his own bite. She takes another sip from her tea as he swallows the treat.

A beat passes. With a calming breath, he softly pleads, "Tell me about her?"

* * *

The living area is where he's been directed to, standing between the unlit fireplace and a clothesline of drying sheets. The orange couch is currently buried under a stack of fabric and sewing supplies and he doesn't want to disturb the setup. So, Bucky casually sways in the free space of the room.

On the mantel sits three framed pictures that he can't help but study closer - as they are the only real decorations in the entire space.

There's a picture of a toothy smiling toddler sat in the middle. Michel, if he was to hazard a guess since Gabi said it herself - they fled with next to nothing in possessions. It had to have been taken after they settled down in England. He wonders if the kid even remembers his older sister. 

The end pictures are smaller, in simple horizontal royal blue frames. And they're more like drawings than anything. Rough charcoal sketches of a certain kind of bird, perched on a branch in one frame and stood on the ground in the other. A small date is written in the bottom right corner of each. 

_16 juillet 1937_ and _4 mai 1938_. But there's no signature from the artist, just the dates.

They had talked, at length, in the kitchen and it was… comfortable. It was good - better than he could have hoped for, honestly. But it was getting late and the heavy smell of spiced fish baking in the oven was enough of a reminder for him to be considering his train ride back to London that evening.

So, he had finally broached the topic of the aftermath. Telling the woman about finding her daughter's bag at the abbey without her journal in it. The one journal that was always tucked in between her pillow and the cot.

"_A journal_?" she had asked, her eyes going wide with realization as she told him to wait there before disappearing up the steps to the bedrooms.

It takes only a few minutes of waiting before he hears her steps on the narrow stairs. She comes around the corner with a brown box, ushering him back to the kitchen with the jerk of her head.

When he comes to the table, she's already pulled the lid off and started digging through the contents.

"Ah!" she cries triumphantly, pulling out a plain blue journal with a thin-lined border.

It's pushed his way, "Journal."

And then she's digging back through the box. Bucky eyes a stack of heavily stamped vanilla envelopes out of his peripheral, but his gaze is focused on the journal under his fingertips.

It is not _the_ journal. He knew that journal. Had tried to sneak multiple looks at that journal. And this was not it. But, he recognizes this one - it had been in the bag with two others. Without another thought of contemplation, he flips open the cover.

Written in a neat little penciled square reads: _La propriété de Gabrielle Cissé_. His heart swells as a warm smile plays at his lips.

After a silent moment, Mrs. Daour pushes the stack of tied envelopes his way. Bucky carefully turns them to read the recipient and sender names. From Gabi to her mother. And then a thin faded red journal is pressed next to the stack. His brows shoot up as he looks at the older woman.

She brushes down her skirt, "These are no use to me anymore. I hold her here - " she taps her chest, where her heart sits, "Paper doesn't hold her. But maybe they will give you peace."

Her hand idly fiddles with the edge of the box with a moment's hesitation, "So, _please_. Take them."

"I," his voice catches in his throat. "_Ma'am_, I can't - I mean, if you're _sure_."

In answer, she pushes the items closer towards him before holding her hands up, "I have had my time with them. Take them, grieve, heal. Yàgg du sabbu waaye dina fóot."

"I…" his voice cracks as a welling starts up in his eyes. "Uhm, _thank you_."

She reaches up, with a hesitant hand, before gently tapping his cheek with her palm, "You are a good man. I see how you loved. I think… _yes_, you made my daughter happy then."

It's the closest he'll ever get to an accepting relationship with the woman who might have one day become his mother-in-law if he had been given a proper chance in a world not torn apart by war and death.

Lowering her hand, she holds her arm with the other, rubbing at her woolen cardigan.

Bucky blinks back the tears that threaten to fall with a sniffle. "These are seriously appreciated. Uhm, will your son mind?"

"My son?" Her brows raise in surprise. "Oh, Michel? No, I think not. He has no memory of her. Maybe one day he asks, then I just tell him stories. For now, he fills the hole and we live on."

Bucky nods slowly, glancing around the kitchen once more before scooping up the two journals and stack of envelopes. 

"Well, I can't thank you enough, ma'am."

She shakes her head and bats her hand, "It was nice to have met you at all, James."

He can't help it after she says his name like that - his heart _aches_ with all that could have been. Knowing the chances of him ever crossing paths with her again are next to none, Bucky leans down and gives her a very tentative hug with his right arm. She stiffens, before gently patting his back.

When he stands back up, he swallows thickly, "Thank you, Fatoumata."

There's finally a gentle smile resting on her face and Bucky feels a sense of peace at long last. Neither one of them comments on the silent tears falling down their cheeks.

* * *

With the heavy smog-filled skies of industrial Liverpool disappearing into the distance as the train returns him back to London, Bucky finally feels brave enough to open the journal. Pulling it from the adjoining seat, he steadies himself before opening the red book.

It's with no sense of shock that he quickly remembers the fact that his long lost love was, in fact, French. With a date of _21 février 1940_ staring up at him, he skims down the first page - the entirety of which is nearly incomprehensible to him.

So, he closes the cover with a small laugh and instead fills his journey with idly rubbing the smooth leather cover with his finger and staring out the window at the darkening countryside. Imagining days long past with a distant melody playing in his head.

"_Des nuits d’amour à plus en finir  
Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place  
Les ennuis, les chagrins, s’effacent  
Heureux, heureux à mourir_."

* * *

The embassy hotel is quiet by the time he returns that evening. Even the streets were clearing out under the mist of a gentle rain shower. The front desk clerk gave him a polite head nod as he walked past. 

In the safety of his pastel-green room, Bucky shucks his coat and hat - letting them rest on the desk chair - before plopping down on the edge of the mustard yellow bed.

With a heavy head, he looks down at the two journals sat in his lap. His fingers clutch the edge of the thin red one tightly. Bucky turns the cover open. Another cursory look at the first entry allows him to pick up on a few distantly recognizable words.

_Gone. Front. Tomorrow._

He's retained the basic French he learned courtesy of the war. But without a book of translations, this is going to be a fully lost cause for the time being. 

Flipping through the journal, he discovers that every entry is in French. With little hopes of change, he pulls the thicker blue journal over.

The first few entries are as expected, written entirely in French. But by the time he reaches _octobre_, he spots some familiar words in English.

_heir - yesterday  
demain - tomorrow  
Je ne sais pas - "I don't know"_

He can't help but smirk. Imagining his girl furiously writing this down in the early days of her nursing. Feeling nostalgic, he lets his index finger trace the curves and loops of her cursive writing. Several entries follow the same pattern - the musings of her mind capped by a small listing of translations.

It makes him recall his own troubles in the first few months across the pond. Trying to understand the captured Italian soldiers, the civilians, the strange grouping of men held in the Hydra warehouse trying to organize and plan an escape. He can't imagine what it must have been like for her, learning a fully new language to get by. Hell, he had never really even _thought_ about it before.

His stomach twists at the realization. How much did he miss? What other things were to remain forever unknown of his lost love?

The journal's last page ends with the 17th of June, 1943 - written as such, in full English. It's not lost on him, that just two days prior, he had shipped out from Brooklyn around the same time. So many coincidences and reasons that they never should have met. And yet they did.

Recognizing nothing but _France_ in the final entry, he finally closes the journal. Feels its weight resting there in his lap.

The stack of envelopes at the end of the bed is calling him. And he's about ready to cut the twine binding with his pocket knife when the bedside phone rings.

Snapping the knife closed, Bucky reaches over and picks up the receiver. 

"Hello?"

_"Barnes? It's Donovan. We've been called up by the bossman. Front desk in fifteen, dinner casual."_

Bucky sighs, feeling the tired weight of the day's emotions seeping through his limbs, but remembering the actual reason for him even being here in the first place. 

"Yeah, I'll be right down."

After hanging up, he stands with a stretch and crosses the room to tuck the precious writings under the small stack of shirts in his brown suitcase. 

Securing his holster in place, he checks the state of his gun. And once he's satisfied with it, then he's readjusting his tie and hair in the mirror before grabbing his hat and coat. He locks the door and pockets the key in his breast pocket, making his way to the lobby and trying his best not to think about her - though it's proving to be a very difficult task to accomplish. 

> She smiles in the purple hues of the winter's sunrise, smoothing a partially gloved hand over his hair once more. The bare tips of her fingers toy with a particular curl on his forehead.
> 
> He brushes it back anyway, just to annoy her.
> 
> She tugs at his coat collar for a moment before stepping back with a lazy smile, "There you are, Sergeant."
> 
> He likes her best in these captured moments - when it's just the two of them. The breadth of her personality is on full display then. All the love and care she holds are able to shine through without any disapproving eyes on their backs.
> 
> "You gonna ask?" he muses, pulling a Lucky Strike from his breast pocket and tucking it between his chilled lips.
> 
> She scoffs, rocking back on her heels. "Whether it's a day or a month, you always find your way back. What sense in me worrying?"
> 
> He was halfway to striking up a match, but he falters, frowns with the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. Out of habit, he glances behind him - looking for any spectators. 
> 
> And then he's yanking her forward, her face meets his warm chest and he never wants to let her go. But he tilts her head up with a single finger under her chin. For the pure hell of it, he traces the outline of her dark mauve lips, taps the tip of her nose.

"Evening, gentlemen," Bucky greets the two state agents as they enter the lobby.

They give matching polite thin-lipped nods.

They putz around the lobby as they wait for the Ambassador. Bucky takes interest in the large green and yellow abstract painting over the white fireplace. 

> "I won't promise it."
> 
> She releases a shaky breath, "Good. I'll see you when I see you, then."
> 
> There's a voice calling his name, from outside the abbey's walls. 
> 
> Looking back down at those gorgeous teasing eyes, Bucky pulls the cigarette from his lips with a breathless, "Ah, the hell with it."
> 
> And then he kisses her deeply, desperately, longingly while she's still here safe in his arms.
> 
> With the once more urgent call of his name, he straightens back up and she brushes his hair back. Even adjusting his coat collar to sit just right. Pressing up on the tips of her toes, she leaves a tender kiss to his freshly shaven cheek.
> 
> "Until we meet again, James."
> 
> She absolutely knocks the breath right out of his damn chest with a single loving moment.

The Ambassador finally strides towards them, readjusting his black bowtie and gold cufflinks.

"Alright, let's get this over with," he says with a grimace. 

> But he still doesn't say it. Instead, committing that final image of her standing there before him to his mind. It takes everything he has to find the power to leave her there on the stone floor and walk out into the frozen winter morning.
> 
> He later wishes he never left her that day.

The two agents take the front seat, while Bucky crams into the back with the Ambassador. He distantly watches the journey of a single raindrop rolling down the left window as they drive through the late-night London streets.

"Hope your day was restful," the older man comments lightly.

Bucky pulls his attention up, "Yes, sir."

It's a lie. His mind has never felt so conflicted. His heart so woefully heavy.

A silence stretches between the car's occupants once again. Bucky watches the strokes of blurred golden lamplight as they blaze past in the evening rain.

* * *

Ambassador Duncan laughs wholeheartedly at the British envoy's sad attempt at humor. It's all part of the plan, cozy up where you can and try to hang on to a bit of your own dignity in the process. As long as they get this deal set up, it doesn't matter just how they got there. 

The dinner had passed much in the same way, at the private table a few steps above the rest of the restaurant's patrons. Everyone trying to please one another without shoving their noses up each other's backsides.

Bucky scans the table for yet another security sweep. The gentlemen had completed the first entrees and were slowly growing a little more inebriated with each passing sip of the classic 1917 Stella Rosa they had ordered.

The two state agents, Donovan and Marino, are stationed at the outer white archway of the private dining area while Bucky stands just off to the side, behind the Ambassador.

Marino's being pretty lax with the seriousness of his job, choosing this moment to light up a cigarette and Donovan seems to be swaying a little on his feet. Hell, this was the best the damn State Department could muster up to cover security for a US Ambassador? He scoffs to himself, kicking at the emerald green carpet with his shiny shoe.

At least the Brits seemed to have some decent, if not a little too rigid, details. They're standing at the opposite end of the table, facing Bucky but not sparing him much mind. They all look like a gentle breeze could knock them over. Not that these things ever turned up much trouble outside of a stumbling drunken government official.

The sweet sound from the inhouse orchestra distracts him for a short while as a set of waiters bring around the next course. It's when the steaming plates are placed in front of the men that he realizes his own hunger sinking in. He had a sandwich on the train back, but that was nearly six hours ago now so he can't help if his mouth waters at the smell of cooked meat.

"Sir, please. You need a reservation to get in and if your name isn't on the list, well..."

Bucky sweeps his gaze over to the entrance hall. Maybe no one else can hear it, but he sure can. That uptick in his hearing abilities after that whole _captured by Hydra thing_ isn't something he likes to share with the class, so to speak. But he can hear a lot more than people realize. That's why this encounter playing out across the restaurant has gathered his attention.

A prim looking maitre d' is quickly losing his patience with a steel-faced patron. His narrow face grows redder by the second as the facade of composure slowly slips away.

"Now, if you would please - "

A man - no, three men - push past the host, still with their hats and long coats on, as he sputters a shocked disapproving sound and a few _Sir! Excuse me, sirs!_ Bucky takes a step forward.

Donovan is trying to flag down a member of wait staff with a tray of champagne as Marino looks on at the orchestra. 

The three men scan the room before nodding up at the private dining area. They're heading up the stairs, pushing a waiter into the ornate railing, and they're pulling their coats to the side -

Bucky leaps forward, knocking the table over, with the shout of startled squawks from the diners causing a momentary distraction, grabbing Duncan by the neck and throwing him down to the floor behind the turned table.

"What on God's earth are you - "

The Ambassador's words disappear with the sudden sound of bullets raining down as Bucky forces his head back down with his left arm. Quickly grabbing a silver serving platter to cover his balding head, the Ambassador curls up amongst the spilled food and cutlery. 

Splinters of the table fly off above them as Bucky raises his already unholstered gun and takes quick aim.

By this point, the other security details are attempting to unholster their own weapons, but it's too little too late. As screams from the other patrons are muffled by the rapid firepower, a shout from the British side of the table resets his wartime mind back into action. 

Bucky catches a glint of the broken reflection of the shooters from the shattered mirror on the wall before turning and taking precision aim at the man on the right. 

The British guards are finally firing back, though several are injured already, bleeding out on their expensive-looking suit jackets.

He all but climbs on top of the Ambassador's back as he fires again, this time at the middle shooter - landing a shot just off from the center of the man's temple.

At this point, he can't hear a damn thing but the sound of his own blood pumping through his ears. Duncan is scrambling at Bucky's leg with anxious fingers, but he can't hear a bit of the older man's pleas as he rolls over him - bumping the bleeding British envoy - as he takes aim at the final man.

The guy's been shot already, in the right arm, but he's still trying to round the table. Bucky fires once, hitting the man in the back of his left shoulder. But the stubborn bastard is still standing, god damnit, and he's got his gun trained on some poor lower government official who has miraculously not been hit yet.

And Bucky finds himself leaping over the British envoy, throwing himself at the shooter as he takes fire at the official. Landing a punch to the man's face as his gun goes off before easily flipping him onto his stomach and snatching the guy's hands together behind his back. The gun scatters across the carpet.

The guy grunts as Bucky pushes his knee down a little more purposely on his blood-stained back. It takes a moment, but he finally releases a ragged breath. Tilting his head back to get the hair off of his sweaty forehead as the wail of sirens outside grows louder.

"My God, son," Duncan rests a shaky hand on Bucky's right shoulder as the chaos finally settles into an unsettled aftermath.

He takes in a deep breath as his heart races, "Were you hit, sir?"

The Ambassador pats himself down as Bucky spares him a look over his shoulder, still pushing his weight onto the shooter's back with minor satisfaction. There's a streak of red on Duncan's cheek, but he otherwise looks unharmed.

"Uh, no. No, I don't think I have been. But son, your arm!"

Bucky follows the man's pointed finger to the crook of his left arm where a large hole in his gray suit jacket now resides. Lifting the arm up, Bucky sees a perfectly intact round lodged between the joints of his prosthetic arm and he laughs with the shock of irony.

Dropping his head as he chuckles to himself, Duncan backs away to check on the others as they wait for the authorities to sweep in.

He hasn't felt this alive in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ANNOTATIONS**
> 
> **1.** As previously stated in the last chapter, Liverpool has had a large Black community since the 18th century. Though it was not without its share of difficulties in terms of acceptance by the white populace. Just a few months after this chapter was set, the 1948 August race riots occurred - leading to the arrest of over fifty Black people. Though it isn't as apparent from Bucky's point of view, Fatoumata and Michel have a less than stable life in the city.
> 
> **2.** And on that note: _L'Exode_ (or, The Exodus). The Germans invaded France in June 1940 in a move known as Fall Rot. Paris was invaded on the 14th. Though refugees had been flooding the streets from the countryside as they advanced on the city. Many went to the south, some escaped by boats to England.
> 
> France signed an armistice with Germany on the 22nd and Vichy France came to be on July 10th. That was the German sympathizing government. The Free France government was established in Liverpool, broadcasting messages of resistance by leader Charles De Gaulle.
> 
> **3.** During the invasion of Paris, several French troops were stationed at the border to give the allies a chance to escape through Dunkirk. Several of those troops were made up of Senegalese Tirailleurs, soldiers taken from the French colonies - primarily in Senegal. They defended key communication lines and were some of the last defenses against the Germans. When they were defeated, they were not given the same Prisoner of War honor as their white allies, as the German soldiers raised with racist bigotry massacred any that were captured.
> 
> **4.** The bombing of Britain started on July 10th. Liverpool was a major shipping port and saw a great deal of the attacks, that many people just associate with the London airstrikes, too.
> 
> **5.** _Lu metti yàggul te ku muñ muuñ_ is Wolof (a language of Senegal) proverb. The translation is: "Whatever is painful, does not last, and whoever perseveres, smiles."
> 
> **6.** _Yàgg du sabbu waaye dina fóot_ is also a Wolof proverb. Translated to: "[Duration of time] isn't soap, but it will clean clothes." Essentially _time heals all wounds_.
> 
> **7.** The song is _La Vie en Rose_ by French singer Edith Piaf. It was released after the war and is seen as an anthem of hope by many. The lyrics translate to: "_Endless nights of love / Bring great happiness / The pain and bothers fade away / Happy, so happy I could die_."


	4. Washington D.C

Bucky groans as the tie around his neck remains in its ill-fitting state. A trembling hand near his side is the reason, as he bounces on his heels in front of the mirror. The reflection of his busted lip and untamed hair glowers back at him. Fingers drum a rapid beat against the leg of his khaki dress pants as he desperately tries to calm his breathing.

This whole thing was just one gigantic clusterfuck of a mess. That's all there was to it. He shouldn't be here - plain and simple. He's done the show-horsing thing before. And the fact that they've decided to drag him back again for it? Well, it's a damn good thing he hasn't eaten today because his stomach is already turning in revolt.

Wasn't it enough to have his image translated into comic book form? Have tiny shreds of his identity adapted for radio shows and collectible toys and lunch pails? A dozen or so poorly done interviews taken the minute he stepped off the boat after three years of actual hell? Wasn't that enough for their carnal hunger? 

The creak of his hotel room door opening only serves to startle him further as Peggy walks in, primly dressed as always, and equally determined in her purposeful strut.

"You, uh, always barge in on guys like this?" he manages, furiously running his fingers back through his hair, seeking out that appearance of being calm and collected. 

She comes to a stop before him with a deadpan expression, pocketing the bobby pin she had used to pick the lock.

"Only the ones who would rather shoot themselves in the foot than be here," the Brit responds plainly as she opens up her purse.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, Bucky shakily digs out his carton of cigarettes from his dress jacket, feeling his nerves a-fucking-blaze in his mind. It just had to be him - a universal conspiracy against his very person, that's what it was.

Peggy snaps her compact closed after examining her makeup and looks at him with an air of thinly-veiled…  _ something. _ Something between distress and disgust. It reminds him of Steve, a bit. Like when he told the skinny punk to steer clear of the war and the 90lbs. soaking-wet blonde gave him that dramatic eye roll and talk of laying down his life. Look where it got him - where it got them both.

He manages to get the damn thing lit, savors the sweet relief of nicotine filling his lungs after a few shaky puffs as he tries to get a hold of himself. A drip of sweat down his back makes him grimace while simultaneously bracing for the incoming lecture. 

"Honestly, James."

There it is. 

Bucky looks up at her under heavy lids, feeling as much of a mess as he probably looks, "What?"

For some reason, her expression softens slightly around the eyes. And then she's striding forward to pull him up and off the bed.

"There will be journalists, with  _ cameras _ ," she emphasizes, as her fingers start tugging his tie loose. "So... do try and attempt to have some sort of care towards your appearance."

Peggy finishes her work in silence. Bucky is polite enough to turn his head to exhale his smoke rings. Soft pale hands smooth over the crease of his freshly-done tie before buttoning up the rest of his jacket and giving a final pat to his chest.

The smell of her perfume hits him past the fumes of his habit. It's nice. Pretty, even. But definitely not her usual scent. It's softer, more floral than anything she would usually be caught wearing. Hell, guess everyone had to dress up a bit when meeting a sitting president.

When his gaze drifts to her red painted lips, he quickly blinks his attention towards the wall.

She backs away. Bucky blows the smoke out in a slow breath, feeling his own senses coming back to him. Though his right hand still has a slight tremor to it as he takes another long drag.

"I really shouldn't be here," he argues, mostly for the sake of it.

Peggy turns back with a less than amused smirk, "Yes, well. Not every day you save an ambassador's life."

He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the journalist who just so happened to be in the area of the shooting. Capturing a fantastic image of him in the aftermath of the attack - thus spreading the headline of  _ Real Life War Hero Saves US Ambassador Over Dinner, _ with that damn image of him, all over the country.

What the hell an American journalist was doing at some fancy-ass English restaurant was beyond him then. Only recognizing a giant flash of light as Ambassador Duncan shook his hand among the wreckage of the dining room.

Another exhale of smoke as he taps the ashes into the bedside table's ornate glass ashtray, "Could have mailed it."

Oh, he knows that he sounds like a petulant child. But he doesn't rightly care. He hates the whole business of it. Hates that they want to give him another useless dresser ornament. See, what they're really after is a photo-op with an old war hero in his dress greens acting like this meeting is the greatest honor of his life.

He'd be singing a different tune if this was a private affair. But it wasn't. They had to stage this on the Rose Garden's lawn because of the number of reporters set to be there. It was nothing but a showpiece for the papers and the President's own public opinion booster.

Bucky  _ was _ the showpiece.

Peggy purses her red lips, clearly biting back a particular remark. Instead, she picks up his hat from the desk and hands it over like some kind of peace offering.

"There are worse things, James."

Stubbing out the cigarette in the tray before grabbing the hat, Bucky contemplates the smooth dark brim for a long moment.

Finally, releasing a defeated breath, he lets the soft admission pass his lips, "Yeah,  _ there are _ ."

Well, at least he isn't dressed in primary-colored tights.  _ Gol _ -fucking- _ ly _ .

She pauses, taking a second to adjust the left shoulder of his jacket with a careful smile. The action alone feels familiar - the memory of someone else's gentle touch - but he's making it a point to not get too lost in his head today. 

And as they head out of the room, towards the waiting car, he contemplates asking old Harry why he can get a fancy medal in less than a week when his brothers in arms still haven't gotten their well-deserved Purple Hearts. It's been three years and Gabe and Jim's applications still haven't been accepted - but sure, throw their likeness in a comic book. He's sure that more than makes up for it all.

Peggy loops her arm through his. And Bucky knows it's more for his benefit than anyone else's. The gesture easily grounds him as they make their way to the ceremony.

* * *

The streetlights, with their golden glow, are being turned on by the time Bucky unlocks his apartment door. The mess of a hurried morning greets him as his shoulders sag upon entry. Coat and hat on the hooks by the door, briefcase not too gently tossed underneath.

He crosses the room, shucking off his suit jacket and tugging his suspenders down as he goes. Toeing off his shoes one after the other and kicking them to opposite corners of the apartment. Bucky pulls the cord on the standing lamp in the corner - illuminating the room in hazy yellow streaks. 

It takes a minute of digging through the old box at the top of his closet, but once he gathers what he needs, Bucky walks over and slouches down into the armchair by the only window.

The gentle curl of smoke rises from the end of his light, squinting at the skyline outside for a long moment before flicking on the radio.

Sultry jazz fills the small space.

A black socked foot taps against the faded hardwood floor for a few pleasant beats and then he lugs over the journal and notebook from the side table. 

With the cigarette trapped between his chapped carnation pink lips, Bucky drags a finger over the cover of the red book before flipping it open.

"Okay, darlin'," he pauses to exhale a curl of vapor. Speaking to the girl forever immortalized between the pages, "Try and work with me here, yeah?"

With his carved pencil in hand, Bucky starts back to work on the slow-progressing translations. 

* * *

The folded morning news smacks down on his desk and Bucky is forced face-to-face with the awkward expression of the candid moment that was captured on film as he shook the President's hand.

"Hey, Mr. Sensational. Try and save some of the fame and glory for the rest of us. Aye, Barnes?" Bill festers in front of him with his usual grisly sneer and heavily greased hair.

A cursory glance around the room displays the same disdain in a handful of the other agents' eyes. Just another day at the office then.

Bucky leans forward in his chair, after a breath, and flips the paper over, "I'll keep that in mind."

The other man seems to deflate then - having unsuccessfully attempted to ruffle Bucky's feathers. But he doesn't have time for the pathetic envy the rest of the office is giving off. It's not like he wanted the damn medal, certainly didn't feel deserving of it - that's for sure.

But these guys? They don't know that shit. Maybe they've watched too many noirs where the hero gets the recognition at the end of the day. Do they forget that SSR operates under the radar still? They're so focused on the fame aspect of this whole news frenzy, they don't realize what that kind of unwanted attention is really like. 

And the thing is, that's not what he even wants to be focusing his efforts on right now. In fact, he has about one very specific project - hidden in his army chest, under his torn to shreds green jumper - he'd rather be giving his full attention to right now.

But ever since he touched down at the airport, his life's just been thrown all out of whack. Suddenly there was a demand for interviews and a group of journalists who seemed to follow him from his apartment stoop to the subway station each morning.

Not to mention the big shots up the governmental ladder who were looking at him under a microscope again. Whether that meant scrutinizing his capabilities or trying to buddy up to him for the benefit of their own political image.

An absolute terror of a mess.

Then, of course, there was the stack of never-ending reports on his desk. That  _ was _ his job, after all. Sure, he got a moment of action for the first time in ages. Had the rare opportunity to jump back into things. But this? This was what he was paid to do. Whether that's where his heart truly lies or not. He has a job and he is paid to do it as seen fit.

It takes him all morning to decipher the chicken-scratch writing of Agent Morris' notes to properly finish up the paperwork for the record books. His mind keeps wandering to places he doesn't want it to.

A damn war veteran turned into a secretary.

It's with that frustrating thought rolling around in his head that Bucky snatches his coat from the back of his chair and heads to lunch. Taking his aggression out on the sidewalk on his journey to the deli around the corner, puffing on a cigarette like it's his only mission in life.

> _ "Watch out, Chucky! If we're not careful, we'll be surrounded!" _
> 
> _ "Gosh golly, Cap! You sure are a great Captain! Shucks, those Germans don't stand a chance against you!" _

Taking a long exhale of vapor, Bucky almost laughs, kicking his foot against the black and blue checkered tile floor. If these fools knew the real Steve Rogers they'd be slapping themselves right about now.  _ Betty Carver. Chucky Burns. _ What a crock of easily-digested All-American shit.

Once he's back out on the sidewalk, and thankfully away from the radio broadcast, he flicks his cigarette butt into a littered doorway and unwraps his corn beef sandwich. 

The sun's out and you can almost feel springtime rising in the air with the easy afternoon breeze down the streets. It's not enough to make him shuck his coat off, but it's the promise of easier heat-kissed days lingering just out of grasp that's enough to put a smile on just about anyone's face.

"Agent Barnes!"

He almost chokes on his lunch before turning to see the person hurrying to catch up to him. His smile drops in confusion.

" _ Jarvis _ ? Give a guy a little warning."

The butler - and personal message runner of Howard Stark - in his perfectly tailored blue pinstripe suit, situates himself next to Bucky as he continues walking back to the office after a beat, unperplexed.

"Apologies, James. I've tried calling, of course," the taller man says after an uneasy moment.

Bucky gives him a doubtful side-eyed look, "Been a little busy, Jarv."

Edwin flusters slightly. But before he can make out a full apology, Bucky responds coolly, "If it's Stark trying to talk me into it, tell him I still ain't interested."

For that, he gapes his mouth, stumbling over the words he wants to say, "Mr. Stark was insistent in having you see the designs! As soon as possible, actually."

They come to a stop in front of the plain white building of the SSR's hidden headquarters. 

"Especially after that particularly nasty run-in last week."

A  _ run-in _ ? Well, that was certainly one way to describe an assassination attempt.

He reins in that comment as a mother and child pass by them on the sidewalk.

" _ James _ ," he tries to appeal. "Howard is only looking to improve your daily experience. And if something of similar circumstance was to occur again,  _ perhaps _ , it would be wise to have a sturdier option available."

Bucky, stunned, mouths the word  _ sturdier _ before chewing the last bite of his lunch. Staring down the other man after a moment of frustrating internal contemplation.

Howard had been desperate to drag Bucky into his lab after he had been fitted with the standard prosthetic after his surgery. Couldn't stop his damn mouth talking about different metal qualities and gadgets and nuclear nerve regeneration something or another.

To his credit, Bucky had been riding a morphine high at the time and hadn't really paid much attention to what the inventor was saying at the foot of his hospital bed.

"And," he presses the sandwich wrapper into Jarvis' hands unannounced, "_I'm_ _not interested._"

He gives him another little pointed press, just to further the distance between them and make a point. But he tips his hat with his right hand as he pushes his back into the front doors, a knowingly fake smile on his face, "Afternoon, Edwin."

* * *

Bucky scans the cursive line again, checks his own writing, glances back, and then towards his own once more.

" _ Fuck _ ."

Funny how many words he was coming across that were stunningly similar to other words - give or take a letter.  _ Le paie _ and  _ le paix _ were his current fuck up. Though with Gabrielle's writing, some words were an even bigger hit or miss.  _ Was that a V or was it an M with an extra hump? _

And oddly enough, the library was magically missing it's only French-to-English dictionary. Go fucking figure. 

So, he scratches out the entire line of translations he had just managed to write with his pencil and tosses it down on his desk. 

Tense fingers tap against the smooth wooden armrest as he stares at the two works. It just couldn't be easy for him, could it? There had to be a catch and a second and a third to make him keep stumbling, never regaining his damn footing.

And the awful thing is, when he looks at what he's gotten down so far, it barely resembles anything of coherent thought.

The end of his cigarette is squashed in the ashtray, smoke billows upward. Running his hand through his tousled hair, he pushes himself out of the chair to pace the floor. It was going to be one of those nights again. 

* * *

They meet at the edge of the monastery's courtyard, overlooking the countryside covered in a dusting of freshly-fallen snow. It's early morning, just like all their meetings before. When they would pretend they weren't coming from the same cot and just happened to cross paths here.

Sometimes, his dreams are gentle towards him - like now. He knows it's a dream because he can't feel the chill in the air. Knows if he keeps his mind from racing too fast, he might get a few minutes of heaven afforded to him.

So, he turns towards his companion and says the only thing that truly matters.

"I miss you, darlin'."

Gabi, with her midnight eyes twinkling in the sunlight, smiles at him and takes his hand in hers.

"I know, my love."

Bucky tries to entwine his fingers between hers, but it all feels muddled down there and he doesn't want to look down and pull himself out of the dream again. 

Turning towards her instead, taking in the features that seem fuzzier - as years have passed him by and her memory fades a little bit more, no matter how much he fights it. But he can still see her classic beauty and warm-toned skin.

"'m tryin', you know."

There's no reason to apologize to a ghost and yet here he finds his guilt on display. 

"I did not make it easy for you," he catches the hint of a smile at the corner of her lips and desperately wants to kiss it.

He scoffs, wraps his arms around her waist, "Nah, you didn't."

Lost in her gaze, he finds himself longing for far more than a dream can give him.

"I miss you," he offers once more.

She silently stares back.

The dreams never make up for the memories. Never manage to soothe the sourness that settles in his stomach when he wakes and he's reaching out for just a few minutes more of mindless yearning. 

It's like his cigarettes - enough to calm the mind, but nowhere near enough to balm the ache.

Bucky lays there, numb, and counts the cracks on his ceiling as the sun's light stretches in through the window.


	5. Brooklyn

The worst of it seems to happen when he lets his mind start drifting. When he catches the hint of perfume in a store, an old love song on the radio, the glimpse of a woman who could maybe be a look-a-like at the end of the street. Starts to feel himself slipping a little more. Chastises himself to _get a damn hold of yourself, Barnes_. 

They got places for people like this - guys who couldn’t keep it together when they made it back Stateside after the war. Those places ain’t so nice and he’ll do just about anything from raising any suspicion that he’s barely holding on right now.

Cause see he’s both cursing the fact that he found her damn file down in records and also obsessing over it at the same time. He’s read just about every report a dozen times over. And hell, he can’t make much sense of her diaries or letters, but he’s still finding himself lost in her penmanship - the swirls and crosses and dots of her words. A smudge of ink from her fingertip, a stain of coffee or tears.

And maybe you’d think it was making him soft.

No. It’s a lot worse than that.

As he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror of the men’s room, as cold water rushes over his bloodied knuckles, and his blood-shot eyes stare back at his ghostly complexion, Bucky thinks he may have just crossed the line.

He should find the fact that he feels so calm right now incredibly troubling. But his hand isn’t shaking and his chest isn’t heaving - despite everything that just happened out there. That should worry him, it’d worry any sane person.

This has been nothing more than an artillery shell, ticking off the seconds till detonation. Till the big _boom_. All this pent up _feeling _has left him anxiously pacing a circle in his apartment’s floorboards. Makes him startle even more at sudden interruptions and sounds. Makes him just feel so… so… _much_. An overwhelming sense of too much-ness. 

And today, it just exploded. Mostly all over his colleague’s face.

After wiping his hands dry and brushing the sweat from his brow, mustering up a shaky breath as he exits the restroom, he is none too surprised to see Peggy waiting just steps away from the drinking fountain.

There’s a momentary pause for them both to stare at each other, make their own assumptions, and prepare their arguments before she finally begins.

“While I don’t find Bill to be the easiest man to get along with, I’m not sure beating him to ribbons on the office floor was the wisest choice for a person to make,” she gives a cursory glance down the hall before adding, “Not that I haven’t played out the scenario a few times myself.”

Bucky gives a hollow laugh with a shake of his head, snorting back some leftover snot. Voice shot from screaming, “Nah, you’d be cleaner about it.”

She gives a thoughtful nod before they begin walking back to the chief’s office, “Perhaps you’re right. But I do keep those things to my imagination as opposed to my reality, James.”

He finds her presence to be rather sharp, a bit too forced. Like the tip of a knife just grazing his cheek. Not pushing or backing away, just there as a reminder.

Glancing down at the white and black tile floor, he finds the way his knuckles are still dripping a bit of blood down onto them and staining his pants where they brush against it.

Peggy comes to a stop, just before the eerily silent room that had been recently vacated, her expression drawn tight with concern, “_James_. What happened?”

For lack of a clear and concise answer, Bucky shakes his head, looks down at the floor and the wall and the doorway and anywhere but her face. He spots the overturned chair where he had been sitting and the strewn of papers and a small pool of blood left over from Bill’s face and his knuckles left to dry on the floor.

Grimacing, he just shakes his head again and mutters, “Doesn’t matter.”

Because not much he has to say right now actually matters. Given the way the Chief is eyeing him up, Bucky figures his days here might just be numbered. After one securing breath, he strides past her without another look and heads straight into Johnson’s office.

* * *

Laying back against his bed, Bucky watches the ball hit his cracked ceiling with a dull _thud _before catching it back in his hand. Just to toss it right back up again. He’s been here since late morning, ever since it was _politely _suggested that he take a _damn breather_ and _take the day off to cool off_.

And he’s kind of trapped in an infinite loop of the fight as he throws the baseball at his ceiling.

It wasn’t justified, hell, he can even see that. But something about the way the pudgy agent had a way of sticking his finger into everyone’s damn business and taunting an insult for just about anything under the sun. Guess Bucky just had enough of the celebrity comments and gave in to a darker version of himself.

And hell, maybe he was getting too lost in his own head these days. Between the job and having his face in the papers again and… Gabi.

The baseball lands on his chest and successfully knocks the air out of him.

With a swear on his lips, he sits up and chucks it at the opposing wall. It makes an unsatisfying _thud _before landing softly in a basket of laundry.

“Come on,” Bucky mutters, rubbing his face with his right hand. 

And a little more urgent, “_Get it together_,” rubbed against his temple. He slaps his own cheek red a few times, just to ground himself.

Glancing over at the desk with her journals and letters, he sighs. Stands with a stretch, shuffles across the room, and plops down in the wooden chair.

Bucky takes in the creased letters, smoothes his fingertips across the empty space at the top of the one nearest him. It’s not like he’s gotten any further with his translations, hell, he’s about in the same spot as he started in.

He’s got the days of the week, _Mother _and _Mama_, _front _and _safe_. But nothing substantial enough to make the full picture appear to him. He’s tried to fill in the words in between the translations, tried to guess just what the heck she was writing about. But it’s really just a failed venture from the start. Regardless, Bucky picks up his pencil, places it firmly between his teeth, and starts with the thin red journal again.

Stopping with a startled swear when he realizes the scabs on his knuckles have broken open and blood has started to rise up again - droplets landing perfectly on the edge of one of the pages.

He screams in the running bath until his voice is hoarse and his tears are dried.

* * *

On the way into the office the next morning, with an aching head from a pathetic hour of sleep, Bucky tries to keep a low profile. The newsstand just down the street had been selling a morning edition with the weekly wrap up that still featured his medal ceremony with the President. So, he tilted his hat a little lower across his brow and kept his head down.

Stood at the busy corner with his index finger rubbing up against the cloth bandage he had finally wrapped around his hand, he tries his best to ignore the sunshine and the world doing its best to keep spinning. Funny how that seemed to work.

At his lowest points, the world around him pushed through it all - even if all he could see was rain clouds and despair, not to sound abhorrently dismal about it. But to be fair, the sun hasn’t been doing much shining on him in quite a few years, he surmises as he scuffs his shoe against the sidewalk.

And then the most obnoxious rumbling comes down the street - Bucky can’t help but jerk his head up to look at the disturbance.

A man sat on - what can only be described as a gorgeous - motorcycle races down the street. Stopping at the intersection, letting the engine purr. It’s a flashy red color with the word _Triumph _on the side in white and gold lettering. Bucky finds himself entranced. It looks so similar to Steve’s from the mission runs along the Front.

The man seems proudly aloof as he scratches his neck and waits for the traffic cop to signal them through. A woman tuts at the sight of it, steering her brood of kids down the sidewalk in an annoyed fashion. Bucky can’t help but feel pulled in by it and he’s not entirely sure why. But something about it has him suddenly noticing the sun shining.

He watches the man drive down the street and out of sight. And while the pleasant disruption allowed him a temporary reprieve from the knowledge of what was awaiting him at the office, Bucky is still keenly aware of his likely fate.

* * *

Now, while Bucky had spent the better part of his morning routine bracing himself for the inevitable, sitting here in Johnson’s office was proving to surprise him.

He had been anticipating a total verbal lashing - the inappropriateness of it all, the absolute disregard for the rules, the childish nature of fistfighting at work because you can’t get a grip on your emotions as easily anymore. He was expecting a demotion if not full suspension or termination.

Maybe he would be the one to finally take over on Peggy’s coffee duty runs. Maybe he would sit with the operator girls up front now. Hell, maybe he’d be down at the V.A. trying to job hunt by the end of the week. A brief image of him running around in the comics’ costume on a stage flashes through his mind before he quickly dismisses it as an absolute last resort.

“So, how ‘bout it, Barnes?”

He blinks once, twice, three times - trying to wrap his head around just what the hell was transpiring.

“Sir?” he manages out in a bit of a shameful squeak.

Johnson perches on the edge of his desk thoughtfully, looking like a damn shadow compared to his red in the face counterpart from yesterday morning.

“Maybe your potential is being wasted at a desk all day, is what I’m getting at here. I mean, you’re a capable man, despite all the -” he gestures vaguely at Bucky’s prosthetic, “ - my point is: maybe fieldwork isn’t so out of the question anymore.”

The older man moves back around his desk, rummaging through the top drawer while Bucky tries to refocus his train of thought because clearly, this was a parallel universe he had walked into this morning. He watches the smoke billow up from the ornate ashtray on the desk, mingling with dust particles in the air as the sun radiates through the window behind his boss.

Johnson’s still talking, something about Commandos, but it sure as hell isn’t piecing together in his head yet.

He waves a paper in front of Bucky’s face after a moment of searching, “Got it all set here, just need a Hancock and we’ll be in business. Send you out on the next call -” he moves the paper back towards his chest with a curious expression, “- if you want it, _that is._”

And he stares. Stares at that sheet of paper being held by his boss as if it’s the lifeline thrown into his current sea of worries.

And he’s not entirely sure _how _or _why _this is happening - no more than he was when Gabi’s file fell into his life and that trip to London magically appeared within a 24 hour period. But Bucky’s no fool. He’s been through enough madness for a lifetime, a literal walk through Hell and back, and he knows that he’s not going to let another opportunity like this fall away when there’s no real guarantee of it ever coming back.

So, he straightens himself up in his chair and nods a confident, “Yes, sir.”

And signs that paper.

* * *

Peggy leans against the filing cabinet next to him, watching with an amused look on her face as he rifles through a folder of personnel papers. She’s been following him around the office all morning - seemingly surprised by his sudden boost of energy.

“Active duty, then?” He nods, “Well, welcome back, Sergeant.”

It’s not like she was one of the first people in the office to catch wind of the promotion when it was offered to him a few days back. 

Despite it, he flashes her an actual smile, “Don’t ask me how or why, but I’ll take it.”

She gives a curt nod and steps back as he closes the cabinet drawer, “As you should. They didn’t have the right to ground you in the first place.”

“Well,” he rolls, walking back down the hallway to his desk with an extra bit of pep in his step, file in hand, “They should’a never doubted you, and look where that got ‘em.”

Peggy gives a conceding nod as they enter the main office, eyeing Johnson in the doorway as they go. Bucky plops down in his seat, flipping open a small notebook and then the file next to it. He feels her hovering over his shoulder with restrained curiosity, but he doesn’t rightly care. Even lets her openly browse it as he writes down the address and number.

Her voice breaks through only a second later with a rather shrill, “_Jones_?”

Bucky nods as he closes the file back up, tossing his pencil into a pile of unfiled reports - that are no longer his job to fill, he might add - at the edge of his desk before spinning in his chair to look up at the perplexed woman. He can’t even contain the smile on his face now.

“Is this some sort of a grand reunion tour or have I missed the memo?” she questions, swiping up the file for herself to peruse through.

He dusts some imaginary lint from his pant leg, “Something like that, sure. Had to make sure my book was updated.”

She crosses her arms, Gabe’s folder tucked securely under one, “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

Scratching at the back of his head, he smoothes, “Ahh, don’t twist it, Pegs. Just figured it was time, is all.”

Despite his best effort, she still gives him one of her penetrating stares - as if trying to pull the answer from the back of his corneas. But that was Carter, always trying to find the hidden meaning in things, never taking anyone at face value. Even Bucky - even after all they had been through together. Hell if he can blame her for it, though. This kind of work made it nearly second nature.

He stands up straight, pulling his whole two extra inches of height on her as he looks down - trying to look entirely endearing and well-meaning in his words.

“Look, I’ve wasted enough time behind this desk, Pegs. Don’t ‘ya think?”

It’s obvious that the desk in question is a stand-in for many things in Bucky’s life, but neither of them chooses to comment on it. After a moment, she gives a jerky nod, as if forcing herself to believe him despite her best instincts.

With a bit of a swallow, she says, “Give him my regards?”

* * *

It takes him three more days to do it. Waiting until just the right moment - on his day off, of course - to dial in the number on his rotary.

This had all occurred to him, after that long and strange talk in Johnson’s office, once the weight of being tied to a desk job for three years had finally been removed, it had finally hit him that he _knew _someone who spoke almost flawless French. And that that person was a metaphorical and _literal _call away if he really wanted to open that door. And with a desk full of failed transcriptions in his apartment, Bucky figured that the door needed to be flung open at this point.

Between dialing and connecting with the operator, he finds himself trying to form necessary introductions and dialogue and one hell of an explanation for calling like this. But he really doesn’t have enough time before the phone picks up.

“Jones residence.”

And it’s like resetting a memory all over again. Except it’s not _Jones residence_ being said, but _Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle - wherever he’s going, they must need him bad_ and a stream of other distantly familiar memories that he has to shake away before he gets really lost in the past.

Bucky tries to swallow the lump in his throat a few times before giving an embarrassingly croaked reply, “Hey, Gabe. It’s _Barnes_.”

There’s a beat of silence as his own heart seems to hammer rather unexpectedly in his chest.

And then a low chuckle comes through, “_Well_, I’ll be damned.”

He can’t help but give a guaff of his own, resting the receiver against his shoulder as he toussels up his hair. Why is his hand so jittery?

“Yeah,“ he breathes out.

He’s trying to picture the other man. Just what he looks like at this unexpected call. Did he interrupt a supper? Did the guy just walk in the door from a day of work? Why is it bugging him so much that he doesn’t know those facts? And why does it feel like those are things he should know in the first place? It had only been three years. But a lot can change in that span of time too.

“I get the feeling, this ain’t a friendly _how ya been_ catch up kind of call.”

Bucky smirks, staring at the now stacked pile of journals and letters, twisting the phone cord between his fingers.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Not that I don’t mind none,” Gabe eases. “But what’s going on, Sarge?”

He can almost hear the _it’s been a while, Barnes. None of us hear from you anymore. Are you as messed up as we think you are?_

He yanks on the cord a few times, letting it bounce in the air as he gathers up his words, “I found something. Somethin’ that’s been tripping me up for a few weeks now.”

Gabe hums encouragingly.

Bucky stares at the journals for a long moment before finally relenting, “I, uh. I found something - I, _shit_.”

After one gulped down shuddering breath, “I found a file on Gabi, at the agency.”

As if speaking her name has summoned her very ghost, Bucky finds himself trapped in an instant picture of her. How she looked, saying goodbye to him on the fateful winter day. The way she had fixed his hair, pulled at his coat collar. The way she smiled with her sad dark eyes. As if telling him _I will be alright, darling. Do not worry for me_.

He’s only pulled out of it by the other man’s confused, “Gabi? _Your _Gabi?”

And isn’t that a hell of a thing to hear again. _Your Gabi_? Yeah, _my _Gabi. My best girl. The love of my whole damn life.

Bucky shakes himself out of it, focusing as hard as he can on keeping his voice steady, “_Yeah_. And things just kept happenin’ and then I’m in England, and I met her mom and her kid brother, and now I have all these things of hers - letters and journals - but I can’t make heads or tails of this stuff cause it’s all in French. I should’a known because, of course, she was _French_. She’d be writing in French. And I’ve been sitting here every night tryin’ to get somewhere with it, but I can’t get a damn grip on the language and…”

His steam runs out as he stares helplessly at the now opened red journal, with the folded sheet of translations tucked in next to her first entry. The three dried bloodstains that couldn’t be removed from the page, forever tainted by him now.

After a second, Gabe hazards a guess, “And you’re in need of a _translator_.”

He rubs his hand over his face, exhausted by the whole journey this file has taken him on, “I’ve _tried_. I got a dictionary and everything, but this was never my strong suit.”

The other man chuckles warmly through the line.

“Yeah. I remember those times you tried to hit up the girls on leave. _Your French is… le pathetic_,” he jokes with an exaggerated accent.

Bucky chokes up for a second because, my god, did he really get so desperate to get to the bottom of all this that he’s actually trying to drag in an old war buddy to help him out?

“Man, none of those girls held a light over her though. You were damn-near lost in her presence. Anyone could see it, you know?”

There’s a pregnant pause before Gabe jumps back in, “You said you met her family?”

He finds himself nodding as he absentmindedly flips through her journal, “Yeah. This file - it had her next of kin. They’re in England. I took a train up for the day. Her mom - god, she looks just like her, man - gave me these two journals and this big old stack of letters that she sent her. Just _gave _them to me.”

“She must’ve known then? ‘Bout you two?”

Bucky smirks down at the memory of the older woman, “Yeah. Think it was kind of obvious.”

Another chuckle, “Be surprised if it wasn’t. You were one lovesick man. Hell, you both were the head over heels type.”

“Yeah, well,” his gusto seems to slow as he rubs his finger over an entry where she had sketched in a lone flower in the margins. His throat tightens slightly.

Thankfully, Gabe speaks up as Bucky finds his own voice failing.

"See you got yourself into some other trouble when you were over there too. Can’t shake it, can ya? If it ain’t those damn comics, it’s a publicity stunt.”

Bucky finds himself smiling, “Exactly! I don’t know what people think is so great about that kind of thing, man. Between _poor _Betty and plucky Chucky, gah. Whole thing just rubs me wrong.”

“Ehh,” Gabe offers. “Think it’s just some good old hope and patriotism leftover from the last few years that folks just want to keep consuming. Cap was - _is _a symbol, after all.”

Bucky just gives a noncommittal hum at the mention of Steve. The stolen image of his best friend being used as propaganda for the masses.

“Anyway,” the other man, thankfully, continues. “These journals and letters, whenabouts are they from?”

Bucky flips through the blue journal, from cover to cover, “God. The one starts in '41 and the other ends in '43.”

Gabe hums thoughtfully, “Bet it’d be bad having any old translator looking at things like that. Government information and the like. 'Specially if they connect it back to you. Like we need another Betty Carver in those stories.”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, that’s a fear I didn’t know I needed to have. Look, I’ve got no idea what she’s got in there. Stuff from the Front, I think. Not sure what _great secrets_ she might have put down in these though.”

Gabe laughs, “Yeah, not much in the spy business, was she? Awful poker face. Even worse at lying. Bless her, she could stitch you up faster than a jackrabbit though.”

And he laughs, genuinely laughs at the memory of her trying to get him to just _sit still_ and let her _sanitize your wound before you lose an appendage, Sergeant._

The moment hangs between them as some kind of unshared memory settles between the two of them, of a nurse they used to know.

“You probably don’t wanna send them down, do you?“ Gabe asks after a long pause.

Bucky blinks.

"Who knows what could happen with the mail, right?” He gives an oddly hollow laugh, a covered up cough to break the sudden tension, and then, “Can’t believe I’m asking this, but Barnes? You fancy a trip down to Georgia anytime soon?”

* * *

Logistically, there’s a lot more that needs to be planned out for that kind of a trip to even occur. Sure, he’s got a handful of personal days he could use up if he wanted to. And he gets paid well enough, and lives reasonably enough, to afford the trip all right. The only thing holding him back now is the new job situation.

The next day, after he called Gabe, they got a tip-off on an operation in the Bronx. Sounded pretty similar to the Leviathan group from a few years back. And, as promised, he found himself in the middle of a fish market with Carter, chasing after a wannabe crime lord. Things took a rough turn, and now they’re stuck scouring the whole of Manhattan for the top dog of the whole thing.

So, for now, Georgia will have to wait.

His coffee, on the other hand. Is very much a necessity. 

The shopgirl hands him over the much-needed brew with a smile and he begs every sort of higher being that she doesn’t recognize him. Maybe luck is on his side today as she’s called back to the other waiting customers. He’s just about to the door when a man side-steps in front of him.

“James! Fancy running into you here.”

Bucky takes a long sip of coffee and tries not to grimace as it burns his tongue, before finally looking up at the butler.

“_Yeah_,” he bites. “Really weird. All the way to Brooklyn for a coffee run for Stark, huh? Little out of the way, you would think.”

Edwin forces a tight smile, “Funny the people you can run into these days.”

He hums in reply and tries to press past the man but is thoroughly stopped when Jarvis holds out his arm - blocking him in against the wall of the corner store.

“T-terrible day to walk, don’t you think?”

Bucky eyes the pleasant weather and sunshine outside the windows over the taller man’s shoulder and raises his brow in question.

“Why,” Jarvis smoothes a hand over Bucky’s now rumpled suit jacket, “It’s rather fortunate, really, that I was able to inform you of this. But did you know, the latest edition of the _Captain America_ series has just been released this morning? That little shop, just down the street? I believe the line was going nearly a full block when I drove past earlier.”

He settles right down into himself, coffee cup held loosely at his side, and deadpans, “You don’t say.”

The other man jerks his head towards the door and says, with an overly polite and knowing tone, “Care for a ride, Sergeant Barnes?”

He doesn’t have much courtesy left to hide his scoff as he finally pushes his way out the door, “I’m gonna pass, buddy.”

The butler hurries to catch up with him, face worn with distress, “I would _advise_ you otherwise, sir. I believe Private _Burns _was featured heavily on the cover this time. And it’s right near your train station, isn’t it? What harm could a personal car ride do?”

Bucky doesn’t care much at all. Until he turns the corner and sees the stretch of people in front of Stan’s Comic and Novelties Store and nearly has palpitations.

There are two men in full costume at the front of the store, waving to the excited people and doing obnoxious poses. Bucky almost throws his coffee in disgust. The bright primary colors. The obvious toy shield. The fake muscles. The perfectly coiffed hair. The _tights_.

“Ya know,” he says with a tight voice, “I might just take you up on that offer today, pal.”

Jarvis nods, pleased, “Very good, sir.”

* * *

It’s only when Jarvis drives right past the SSR offices, despite Bucky’s shout of _hey, the heck are you doin’, man_, that he realizes he should have tried to brave past the comic store in favor of the subway. Not that it matters now. Now that he’s being held hostage by an unusually polite Englishman.

They drive further into Lower Manhattan, past the usual government offices and banks. And while he has an idea of just where - or should he say _who _\- he may be getting taken to, Bucky isn’t entirely sure.

So, when they pull up in front of a non-descript diner with a blue and white awning, he is, admittedly, a little surprised.

Offering only a raised brow at the butler who opens his door and escorts him into the empty restaurant, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Howard Stark sits casually in one of the booths, with his feet kicked up on the table, sunglasses resting on top of his gelled hair. Something luminescent blue, that looks incredibly alcoholic, in a glass held in his hand, that he raises in a _cheers _motion as Bucky draws near.

He looks around at the slightly darkened room, the lack of waitresses and cooks behind the counter. He can smell the breakfast grease still lingering in the air, can see the coffee pots still steaming away. Makes him wonder how much the guy offered the staff to get them on a _close the place up early_ deal. It doesn’t sit right with his stomach, but he steps closer to the billionaire and sticks to his guns.

“You could’ve called.”

Howard laughs, kicking his feet down onto the floor, “Been tryin’ that stuff for three years, my friend. Drastic times call for drastic measures.”

He takes a hesitant seat in the booth across from him, shucking his coat and hat against the wall. Out of his peripheral, he watches Jarvis take a seat at the lunch counter, swiveling away from them for his employer’s privacy.

“Guess I haven’t made it clear enough then. I’m not interested in whatever crazy half-brained thing you wanna try and do with my goddamn arm. Okay? So, lemme make it easy for you and get out of your hair.”

The other man laughs, “What can I do to convince you, Barnes? Look, pal. I get it. You know you can’t get back what you had and you don’t want some space-age robotics. But can you honestly tell me that _that _-” he jabs his finger at the prosthetic hand, “-is doing you any favors right now?”

Howard waves his arms open, “I mean, if you can honestly tell me, I’ll leave you be. But I get this nagging feeling that you kind of hate the thing. I mean, hell, it doesn’t look very comfortable for starts.”

And sure, Bucky can feel the harness digging into his shoulder. Can sometimes feel the phantom pain of what _should _still be there.

"Bet it’s got some pretty useless functionality too. Tell me, if I threw this at you,” the other man holds his sunglasses loosely between his fingers, “could you even catch it? What kind of grip does that even have? Or is it more of a _for show purposes only_ kind of deal?”

Okay, so he knew. Knew exactly how much Bucky loathed the prosthetic. But he had seen the original sketches and blueprints that Stark had done up. And he sure as hell didn’t want anything like that getting attached to his body.

“Buddy,” he pulls out a manilla folder, stuffed with papers, “I get it, I do. But will you just hear a guy out first? Getting back into the action and all, I figured you’d want to increase your odds.”

Bucky squints, “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, shucks. You hear all kinds of things. Little English bird told me something about active duty. Did I hear that right?”

It makes him wonder what other things Peggy Carter has been dropping into Stark’s ear, about him especially.

Bucky kicks his legs out under the table, unbuttons his suit jacket, “You’re gonna make my life a living hell if I don’t look at these, aren’t you?”

Howard all but _whoops_, knowing he’s finally won his audience as he pulls out a spread of new design ideas. Affording Bucky with a camera-ready smile, “You better believe it, pal.”


End file.
